MAIDS  IN  A  MARKET  GARDEN 


' '  The  secret  of  the  authorship  of  '  The 
Dop  Doctor '  has  at  last  leaked  out.  It  is 
whispered  that  this  brilliant  novel,  which  was 
the  success  of  last  year,  WES  written  by 
MISS  CLO.  GRAVES.  There  were  many 
guesses  at  the  authorship  of  The  Dop  Doctor, 
but  nobody  suspected  that  it  was  the  work  of 
this  famous  lady  novelist  and  dramatist  " 
London  Opinion 

' '  Whatever  she  may  please  to  style  herself 
Miss  Graves  never  fails  to  give  us  work  which 
is  brilliant,  powerful,  and  entirely  acceptable. ' ' 
The  Bookseller 

"It  is  a  rare  thing  for  an  author  who  has 
achieved  distinction  to  drop  the  name  to  which 
the  public  has  become  accustomed  and  to  re- 
place it  by  another.  But  Miss  Clothilde  Graves 
having  made  the  greatest  success — so  far— of 
her  literary  career  under  the  pseudonym  of 
' '  Richard  Dehan, ' '  is  said  to  have  resolved 
to  use  the  latter  name  only  in  connection  with 

all  her  future  work." 

The  Bookseller 


RICHARD   TROTTED    DOWN    THE    LAXE."      /    54. 


Maids  in  a  Market 
Garden 


BY 

CLOTILDE  GRAVES 
(RICHARD   DEHAN) 

Author  of  "One  Brave  Thing"  and  "Between  Two  Thieves'1 


Illustrated  by  Maurice  Greiffenhagen 


NEW   YORK 

WYCIL  &  COMPANY 
1912 


Copyright  1912 

By 
Wycil  &  Company 


LIST  OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

RICHARD  TROTTED   DOWN   THE   LANEJ  ...  ...  Frontispiece 

Facing  //. 

LADY  JANE   PEGRAM   SAT   AT  THE   CENTRE    TABLE   WITH    THE 
LEDGER     AND     DAY-BOOKS     OF    THE     DEFUNCT     BUSINESS 

BEFORE   HER        8 

AUNT   HOSANNA  JOB                l6 

A  VEHICLE  CAME  INTO  SIGHT      24 

"WOULD  TH'  LADIES  BE  WANTING  ANY  FISH,  THINKY  ?  "...  48 

A  PILE  OF  CABBAGES  LAY  AT  THE  ANCIENT'S  FEET 56 

TO  EACH  YOUNG  WOMAN  HER  OCCUPATION  WAS  ASSIGNED  ...  64 

ROSEVEAR  BEGAN  TO  WALK  AWAY — BACKWARDS        80 

ONE  OF  THEM  CARRIED  A  PITCHFORK,  THE  OTHER  A  BILLET 

OF   WOOD                ...            ...            ...            ...            ...            ...            ...  88 

OCTAVIA   WENT  ABOUT  WITH   A   PRUNING-HOOK             96 

"HIM   BE   NOTHING   PRIDY  TO   LOOK   AT,    FOR  SURE"               ...  112 

THE   KNITTING   WOMEN   LOOKED   UP   FROM   THEIR   WORK        ...  136 

"POISE  THE   LINE  SO,    BETWEEN   YOUR   FINGERS"        ...            ...  144 

FARMER    POLWHEAL                  l6o 

ROSEVEAR  WETTED  THE  YOUNG  MAN'S  PALLID  LIPS  AND 

TEMPLES  WITH  THE  BRANDY  176 

"  NAW,  LAD,  THER'  MUN  BE  NO  MORE  WALKIN'  TOGETHER 

AFTER  THIS"  ...  ...  ...  ...  ...  ...  ...  192 


2135820 


MAIDS  IN  A  MARKET  GARDEN 


IT  was  a  bright,  warm  afternoon  in  the 
month  of  July.  High  Street,  Kensington, 
was  at  its  busiest,  and  although  it  was 
neither  a  Thursday  nor  a  Saturday,  the 
pimply-faced  errand  boy  was  putting  up  the 
shutters  of  the  United  Gentlewomen's  Work 
Emporium.  Within,  the  Emporium  pre- 
sented a  denuded  aspect.  If  the  truth  must 
be  told,  the  business,  after  dragging  on  a 
precarious  existence  for  a  period  of  eighteen 
months,  had  somewhat  suddenly  collapsed, 
and  its  promoters  were  at  that  moment  en- 
gaged in  winding-up  affairs,  in  the  shallow 
little  show  parlour  on  the  first-floor  front, 
over  a  funereal  cup  of  five  o'clock  tea. 

Lady  Jane  Pegram  sat  at  the  centre-table 
with  the  ledger  and  day-books  of  the  defunct 
business  before  her.  She  wore  a  frowning 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

aspect.  The  other  members  of  the  com- 
pany were  scattered  about  the  room  in 
various  attitudes,  expressive  of  different 
degrees  of  limp  depression,  and  a  plausible 
person  in  black  silk  raiment — the  irreproach- 
ably respectable  lady  manageress,  under 
whose  auspices  the  United  Gentlewomen's 
Work  Emporium  had  first  opened  its  shutters  : 
those  shutters  now  sealed  for  ever  upon 
Kensington  High  Street — was  in  the  act  of 
taking  a  final  leave. 

"  I  fear,"  she  remarked  suavely,  indicating 
the  volumes  over  which  Lady  Jane,  with  a 
puzzled  brow,  was  poring,  "  that  you  will 
find  them  difficult  to  understand.  You  are 
probably  unacquainted  with  the  Rules  of 
Bookkeeping." 

"  Perhaps  so,"  returned  Lady  Jane,  grimly, 
"  only  I  know  a  muddle  when  I  see  one. 
Good  day  to  you." 

The  door  opened,  and  closed  behind  the 
departing  lady-manageress.  Lady  Jane  drew 
herself  erect  and  looked  round  upon  the 
United  Gentlewomen  assembled.  She  sniffed 
a  sniff  that  was  pregnant  with  suspicious 
meaning,  and  smote  the  table  smartly  with 
her  clenched  hand. 

8 


"  LADY    TANE    PEGRAM    SAT    AT   THE   CENTRE   TABLE   WITH   THE    LEDGER    AND 
DAY-BOOKS   OF   THE    DEFUNCT    BUSINESS    BEFORE    HER."      p.  8. 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  Oh,  are  you  really  sure,  you  know  ?  " 
cried  Fanny  Dormer.  Lady  Jane  nodded  an 
awful  nod. 

"  Unimpeachable  references/'  she  com- 
mented. "  Experienced  in  business,  and 
widow  of  a  surgeon  with  half-a-dozen  letters 
dangling  after  his  name.  She  has  got  five 
to  hers — R.O.G.U.E.,  spells  Rogue,  and  a 
rogue  you  are,  my  sugary  friend  in  black  silk." 

"  If  she  has  cheated  us,  can't  it  be  brought 
home  to  her  ? "  This  came  from  Clara 
Currey. 

"  It's  not  worth  while,"  said  Lady  Jane, 
decidedly.  "  Proceedings  are  expensive,  and, 
I  don't  mind  being  laughed  at,  but  I  should 
hate  to  be  called  a  dupe.  Let  her  go,  with 
her  ill-gotten  gains  in  her  pocket.  We  have 
got  a  lesson,  in  return  for  our  money," 
Lady  Jane  prided  herself  on  plain-speaking, 
"  and  the  best  thing  we  can  do  is  to  profit 
by  it." 

"  And  not  engage  in  any  more  speculations — 

Leave  to  masculine  investors,  '  bulls '  and  '  bears,'  and 

'  rings  '  and  '  booms,' 
Once  more  gird  our  loins  for  conquests  in  exclusive 

drawing-rooms — 
Angling   with    the   latest    fashions   for   the    eligiblest 

grooms." 

9 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  O  Tennyson,  what  outrages  are  com- 
mitted on  thy  metre  !  Heaven  forgive  you, 
Rosevear  Trelawney  !  " 

"  Heaven  may,  but  I  cannot — for  being 
a  woman  born,"  said  Rosevear.  She  jumped 
from  her  chair  and  drew  up  her  slight  figure 
to  its  utmost  height.  Her  wonderful  yellow- 
brown  eyes  gleamed,  her  red-gold  hair 
caught  the  London  sunset  in  its  lovely 
meshes  and  held  it  fast  prisoner.  "  O  why," 
she  went  on,  "  why  was  I  born  with  a  taste 
for  business  and  a  small  capital  at  com- 
mand— into  a  world  where  feminine  enter- 
prise seems  to  spell  failure  ? 

Who  has  got  little  here  below 
Must  make  that  little  more, 

seems  to  me  an  admirable  apothegm.  Why 
can't  I  carry  it  out  ?  I'm  too  poor  to  lead  a 
life  of  fashionable  luxury,  and  too  rich  to  be 
a  charity  orphan.  My  dear  father  was  a 
poor  Cornish  squire,  and  when  he  died 
he  had  nothing  to  leave  me  but  a  few  acres 
of  land  and  a  fund  of  good  spirits." 

"  Papa — mine  and  Fanny's — as  you  all 
know,"  said  Marjory  Dormer  sleepily,  "  holds 
a  distinguished  post  in  the  Indian  Civil 

10 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

Service.  He  has  a  great  deal  of  money,  I 
believe,  and  an  obstinate  liver  complaint 
and  will  one  day  come  home  to  get  rid  of 
both  encumbrances.  Up  to  the  present  he 
has  lavished  nothing  upon  his  daughters — 
except  good  advice,  and  bottles  of  chutnee. 
We  have  three  hundred  a  year  between  us 
— just  enough,  as  somebody  says  in  Dickens  " 
— Marjory  was  too  innately  lazy  to  place  her 
quotation  more  definitively — "  to  make  us  wish 
there  was  more.  We  have  an  elderly  aunt  to 
chaperone  us.  We  live  a  watering-place  and 
health-resort  kind  of  life,  with  an  occasional 
London  season  thrown  in.  This  is  the  fag- 
end  of  one  of  them.  It  has  been  dull."  She 
yawned,  and  relapsed  into  silence. 

"As  we  are  volunteering  antecedents  and 
so  forth,"  said  Lady  Jane  Pegram,  "  let  me 
contribute  my  little  quota  of  information 
to  the  general  stock.  I  am  the  sixth  daugh- 
ter of  a  Welsh  Peer.  Papa  has  no  son, 
brother,  nephew,  or  cousin  to  succeed  him, 
and  as  we  are  all  plain  and  all  middle-aged, 
the  title  will  very  likely  become  completely 
extinct.  It  is  incredibly  old,  and  the  castle 
— everybody  has  heard  about  Llwddllm ; 
it's  quite  a  show  place — is  incredibly  tottery  ; 

ii 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

and  the  yearly  income  derived  from  our 
ancestral  acres  of  peat-moss  and  slate-rock 
has  sufficed  to  support  us  in  aristocratic  dis- 
comfort and  exclusive  meagreness  up  to  the 
present.  Of  the  future" — she  shrugged  her 
shoulders — "  I  cherish  doubts.  Hence  my 
endeavour — I  need  hardly  say  it  is  dis- 
approved of  by  the  family — to  manipulate 
the  small  fortune  of  four  hundred  pounds 
which  came  to  me  by  will  of  a  distant  relative 
of  my  mother's,  so  that  it  might  lay  the 
foundation  of  a  provision  for  my  declining 
years.  The  idea  struck  me  that  a  limited 
company  might  be  formed  of  spinsters,  who, 
like  myself,  had  got  a  little  money,  and  would 
not  blench  at  the  idea  of  a  business  invest- 
ment. I  looked  about  me — I  was  staying  in 
a  Cornish  country-house  at  the  time  the  idea 
occurred  to  me — and  I  saw " 

"  You  saw  Me,"  said  Rosevear  Trelawney. 
"  You  recognised  a  kindred  spirit,  and  un- 
folded your  plan.  I  entered  into  it  heart 
and  soul.  Then,  later  on,  we  met  here,  in 
London,  and  revived  the  old  subject  of  dis- 
cussion. About  that  time  Octavia  dropped 
upon  us — literally  from  the  Skyes." 

"  Ah,  that  crofter  business  !  "  commented 
12 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

Lady  Jane.     "  You  didn't  find  the  lecturing 
tour  a  success,  I  believe  ?  " 

"  The  tour  was  triumphant/'  asserted 
Octavia.  Miss  Octavia  Wall  was  a  dark, 
slim  young  lady,  who  wore  spectacles  and 
short-cropped  hair,  and  always  dressed  as 
though  she  were  in  expectation  of  being 
called  upon  to  take  part  in  a  walking-match 
at  the  shortest  possible  notice.  "  The  tour 
was  triumphant.  The  lectures  were  received 
with  the  deepest  attention,  and  would  have 
made  an  immense  impression  had  the  hardy 
peasants  of  those  wild  latitudes  been  better 
acquainted  with  the  English  language.  Un- 
fortunately, they  all  spoke  Gaelic  ;  and  when 
I  alluded  to  Female  Suffrage  it  was  generally 
understood  to  mean  seed  potatoes."  She 
sighed.  "  Yet  a  time  may  come  when  my 
poor  efforts  will  be  proved  not  to  have  been 
made  in  vain.  Yes,  as  you  say,  I  joined  you. 
I  thirsted  for  a  fresh  field  of  enterprise,  no 
matter  how  limited  ;  and  though  the  idea 
of  opening  an  establishment  for  the  sale  of 
ladies'  work  was  not  a  new  one,  it  seemed 
a  step  in  the  right  direction.  Three  other 
members,  all  possessing  small  capitals " — 
she  nodded  at  the  Dormer  girls,  and  smiled 

13 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

at  her  friend  Clara  Currey — "  threw  those 
capitals  into  the  company.  We  opened  a 
business  emporium,  engaged  a  superinten- 
dent who  appeared  to  have  the  necessary 
qualifications  " — Lady  Jane  screwed  up  her 
mouth  and  shook  her  head — "  and  announced 
our  readiness  to  receive  (carriage  paid)  and 
dispose  of  (on  a  small  percentage)  the  articles 
manufactured  by  our  clients.  When  they 
grasped  the  idea  we  were  literally  inun- 
dated." 

"  With  banner-screens/'  interrupted  Miss 
Trelawney. 

"  And  babies'  wool  boots/'  added  Clara 
Currey,  thoughtfully.  "  I  wonder  why 
gentlewomen — I  mean  ladies  in  reduced  cir- 
cumstances, who  are  forced  to  maintain 
themselves  by  manual  labour,  invariably 
fly  to  banner-screens  and  babies'  boots  ?  " 

"  You  forget  the  nightdress-bags,"  put  in 
Fanny  Dormer. 

"  And  the  tennis  aprons,"  said  Marjory. 

"  And  the  Christmas  cards,"  added  Lady 
Jane.  "  In  another  and  higher  state  of 
existence  we  may  be  permitted  to  know  why 
they  evolve  those  articles,  and  what  is 
more,  expect  to  sell  them — in  the  Dog 

14 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

Days.  But  all  questioning  is  over  for  the 
present.  We  got  the  right  kind  of  goods  at 
last,  and  began  to  establish  a  decent  clientele. 
Everything  promised  well,  and  yet  here  we 
are  at  the  year's  end  out  of  pocket.  Why  ? 
Because  we  were  too  lazy  to  put  our  shoulders 
to  the  wheel  in  earnest,  and  too  snobbish 
to  be  real  women  of  business,  and  take  the 
management  of  the  concern  absolutely  into 
our  own  hands.  Next  time  " — her  counte- 
nance assumed  a  look  of  invincible  resolu- 
tion, and  she  smote  the  table,  in  her  favourite 
way,  smartly  with  her  hand — "  next  time 
that  I  have  anything  to  do  with  a  shop  I'll 
stand  behind  the  counter  myself  and  take 
the  money  myself ;  I  will,  or  my  name's 
not  Jane  Pegram  !  "  she  concluded. 

"  And  you  are  right,  Lady  Jane  !  "  cried 
Octavia  Wall,  with  sparkling  spectacles. 

Lady  Jane  looked  round  upon  the  listeners. 
The  electric  spark  she  had  produced  had 
flashed  from  one  to  another,  and  galvanised 
them  to  enthusiasm.  The  chain  ended  in 
Rosevear  Trelawney,  who,  in  her  impulsive 
way,  threw  her  arms  round  the  bold  woman, 
and  hugged  her  warmly. 

"  We'll  begin  again,"  she  cried.  "  We 
15 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

have  got  some  money  left,  and  we'll  begin 
again.  No  middle-men,  no  middlewomen. 
If  we  turn  pork-sellers  we'll  kill  our  own  pigs 
— at  least,  not  quite  that,"  as  a  shudder  con- 
vulsed the  United  Gentlewomen,  "  but  we'll 
make  our  own  sausages,  and  sell  them  by 
the  pound.  Or  if  we  become  farmers,  we'll 
plough  our  own  wheat  ;  or  if  we  turn 
market-gardeners,  we'll  plant  our  own 
potatoes  and  cabbages,  and  dig  them  our- 
selves too.  And "  She  stopped,  and 

clasped  her  hands,  and  looked  round  upon 
them  all,  smitten  with  a  sudden  brilliant 
thought. 

"Go     on !  "     the     United     Gentlewomen 
cried. 

"  An  idea  has  come  to  me,"  went  on  Rose- 
vear.     "  Why    shouldn't    we    turn    market- 
gardeners  ?  " 
"  Got  no  land." 

"  We  have  got  some,  Lady  Jane,  or  I  have, 
which  is  the  same  thing.  Down  in  Cornwall," 
she  waved  her  hand  westwards,  "  I  have  got 
a  farm-house — it  is  about  the  only  thing  I 
have  got — and  it  stands  in  six  acres  of 
orchard  and  garden-ground, — it  is  big  enough 
to  hold  all  of  us,  without  crowding,  and  as 

16 


"AU\T    HOSANNA   JOB."      /.   CO. 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

nobody  lives  in  it  except  a  tenant  who  won't 
pay  me  any  rent — because  I  am  a  woman  and 
he  thinks  it  a  waste  of  money — why  shouldn't 
we  turn  him  out  and  take  up  our  quarters 
there  ?  We  should  be  within  half  a  mile 
of  the  sea-coast  and  five  miles  of  a  railway- 
station.  It  is  a  land  of  plenty,  lying  in  a 
hollow  of  the  great  round  hills,  and  running 
over  with  clotted  cream  and  thyme-honey. 
We  will  take  down  tools,  seeds,  everything. 
We  will  dig  and  sow,  plant  and  prune,  build 

greenhouses "  she  caught  her  breath. 

"  We  will  supply  the  Plymouth  and  Truro 
markets  with  vegetables  and  flowers  ;  per- 
haps, in  time,  cater  for  Covent  Garden  itself. 
We  will  become  rich." 

"  We  will !  "  exclaimed  the  United  Gentle- 
women. 

They  rose  to  their  feet  with  one  accord  ; 
their  eyes  glowed  and  their  cheeks  were 
flushed  with  suppressed  excitement  en- 
gendered by  contemplation  of  the  splendid 
picture. 

"  You  are  a  born  orator,"  said  Octavia 
warmly. 

"  I  only  spoke  as  I  felt,"  said  Rosevear. 
"It  all  flashed  on  me  in  a  minute.  Dear 

17  * 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

Killigarth !     How  could  I  have  forgotten  it 
for  so  long  ?  " 

Lady  Jane  laid  her  hands  on  the  girl's 
shoulders  and  looked  into  her  clear  eyes. 
"  My  dear/'  she  said,  "  it  was  an  inspiration. 
We  will  form  a  private  Limited  Liability 
Company  of  Female  Fruit  and  Flower 
Gardeners.  There  will  be  shares — six  of 
them,  say,  at  seventy  pounds  each." 

The  motion  was  unanimously  carried. 

"  You  " — she  turned  again  to  Rosevear — 
"  you,  who  contribute  house  and  land,  will 
of  course  be  exempt  from  purchase.  We 
shall  be  a  rural  community  of  peaceful 
toilers,  eating  our  home-grown  salad  in  the 
perspiration  of  our  own  brows.  I  can  see 
it  all." 

"  Let  us  make  one  condition — form  one 
resolution — be  of  one  mind  upon  one  subject, 
though  upon  others  we  may  amicably  agree 
to  differ,"  said  Octavia  Wall.  "  My  dears, 
let  us  keep  the  insidious  Man  as  well  as  the 
destructive  wireworm  out  of  this  Eden  we 
propose  to  inhabit  and  cultivate.  We  will 
coax  from  the  kindly  soil  the  fruits  which  for 
countless  centuries  the  Iron  Hand  of  Brute 
Force "  (she  was  insensibly  relapsing  into 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

her  platform  manner)  "  has  wrested  from 
it.  No  foolish  coquetries,  no  idiotic  flirta- 
tions "  (she  looked  hard  at  the  Dormer 
girls)  "  must  disturb  the  current  of  our  even 
lives.  Regular  meals,  early  hours,  sensible 
dress,  hardy  occupations  should  be  enforced 
amongst  our  rules.  And  our  watchword — 
borrowed  from  the  labouring  class  to  which 
we  shall  henceforth  belong — our  watchword 
should  be — 

'"NO  FOLLOWERS  ALLOWED.'" 

Miss  Wall's  spirited  address  was  received 
with  acclamations.  And  so  the  United 
Gentlewomen's  Work  Association  perished, 
and  the  Limited  Liability  Company  of  Female 
Fruit  and  Flower  Gardeners  uprose,  like  the 
proverbial  Phoenix,  from  its  ashes. 


T9 


II 

AUNT  HOSANNA  JOB  stood  on  the  flagstones 
outside  the  back  kitchen  door  one  late  noon 
in  September,  shading  her  strong  blue  eyes 
with  her  brown  right  hand,  and  looking 
down  the  steep  lane  which  vanished  at  its 
junction  with  the  Pencarrick  road,  where 
Killigarth  Mill  stood,  with  its  lumbering 
wheel  wallowing  slowly  round  and  round 
under  the  impetus  given  it  by  a  stream  of 
absurdly  tiny  proportions.  It  had  been 
raining,  and  the  autumn  splendours  of  the 
landscape  were  enhanced  by  crystalline 
sparkles  reflected  from  pendulous  drops  ; 
and  the  many-tinted  glories  of  a  rainbow, 
the  lower  portion  of  whose  arch  alone  was 
visible,  resting  on  a  heavy  stratum  of  clouds 
that  had  formed  in  the  north-east,  while 
where  the  upper  spring  of  the  prismatic 
ellipse  should  have  been  was  a  clear  vacancy 
of  blue  sky. 

"  Th'  weather  dog,"  said  Aunt  Hosanna, 
shaking  her  head  at  the   broken   rainbow, 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  stands  for  more  rain.  I  feel  it  in  my  dear 
bones,  too,  and  Bible  prophecies  be'nt  truer 
than  they  rheumatic  skwitches.  Huey,  ma 
son,  run  down  as  far  as  th'  bridge,  an*  lem 
ma  knaw  whether  they  pore  sawls  be 
fetchin'  into  zight.  Dusta  hear,  Huey  ?  " 

"  Yes,  A'nt  'Sanna,"  said  a  man's  voice 
from  behind  her.  The  tone  of  the  assent 
was  of  such  preternatural  meekness  that 
Aunt  Hosanna's  suspicions  were  aroused, 
she  turned  round  quickly  and  peered  into 
the  semi-obscurity  behind  her.  Then  she 
called  sharply.  A  handsome  young  man  in 
fisherman's  dress  made  his  appearance  in 
the  doorway.  Over  his  broad  shoulders  ap- 
peared the  face  of  a  young  woman.  Both 
the  young  man  and  the  young  woman  looked 
smilingly  confused,  and  on  the  olive  cheek  of 
the  latter  burned  a  red,  fruit-like  stain,  the 
unmistakable  mark  of  a  kiss,  which  must 
have  made  up  in  intensity  for  what  it  lacked 
in  noise. 

"  Ma  sweet  sensis !  What  it  es  to  be 
young  !  '  For  all  things  a  time,'  zeth  wise 
man  Solmin.  '  Never  time  enough  to 
cousey,'  answers  Nicky  Noodle,  and  Kate 
Kiss  Th'  Lads." 

21 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  Now,  A'nt  'Sanna !  "  murmured  Joan 
Melhuish,  deprecatingly,  as  the  garden  gate 
clicked  behind  the  retreating  Huey. 

A'nt  'Sanna  gave  a  relenting  twinkle,  and 
the  girl  and  the  woman  stood  close  together, 
listening  as  the  sound  of  the  fisherman's 
retreating  footsteps  died  dully  on  the 
distance. 

"  Aw  be  arl  of  a  zimmer,"  she  pursued, 
"  along  of  the  young  mistress's  home-coming. 
Aw've  niver  set  eyes  on  she  since  her  were  so 

small  as "  She  dropped  her  glance 

meditatively  on  a  wooden  washing-trough 
which  had  been  set  in  the  open  air  to  drain. 
"  Lor'  bless  her !  Aw  might  ha'  putten 
she  to  bed  en  thacky,  dolly  en  aw.  Th' 
ould  squire  sent  she  to  schule  en  furran 
parts,  en  her  wer'  but  just  growed  a  maid 
when  a'  died,  poor  sawl.  Her  cost  he  more 
than  enough  money,  aw  reckon,  so  that  folks 
did  zay  as  him  wer'  like  the  Mayor  of  Kel- 
nick,  es  walked  tu  miles  t'  ride  one.  He 
leaved  she  arl  him  had,  ivera  pennord,  but 
here  her  be  acomin'  back  wi'  a  passel  o' 
feymels  t'  earn  a  livin'  arter  aw.  Letter 
zay  zo,  dint'un  ?  " 

"  Th'  letter  said  so,"  answered  Joan. 

22 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  Fare  forth'  wi'  Fred  Full-Pocket,  en 
trapse  home  agean  wi'  Penny  Liggan.  Sich 
true  'ords  as  there  be  en  they  owd  sayin's  !  " 
murmured  Aunt  Hosanna,  straining  her  eyes 
into  the  distance.  "  My  dear  sensis  !  "  she 
exclaimed,  in  shriller  accents.  "  If  here 
they  be'nt  aw  do  b'leve !  Looky,  cheild, 
and  see." 

"  They  are  coming,"  responded  Joan 
Melhuish. 

They  were  coming. 

Killigarth  House,  a  rambling  one-story 
edifice  of  rough  grey  stone,  was  perched 
upon  a  steep  slope  of  the  upper  valley, 
where  a  shelf  of  outcropping  granitic  rock 
had  been  hollowed  out  for  its  foundations. 
Its  orchard  was  behind  it,  and  situated  upon 
a  rise  so  abrupt  that  its  mistress  was  wont 
to  aver  that  it  was  possible  to  sit  in  an 
apple  tree,  and,  by  looking  down  the  kitchen 
chimney,  assure  oneself  that  dinner  was 
in  progress  of  cooking.  Opposite  Killi- 
garth, at  the  lowest  level  of  the  valley,  where 
the  noisy  little  trout-stream  attained  its 
utmost  volume,  stood  the  mill,  and  the  Pen- 
carrick  road,  taking  a  north-westerly  direc- 
tion, climbed  past  it  out  of  the  hollow, 

23 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

and  lost  itself  round  the  high  green  shoulder 
of  a  hill.  But  the  road  reappeared  again, 
breathlessly  climbing  over  a  very  steep 
ridge  to  the  eastward  many  hundreds  of 
feet  above  the  mill,  and  so  exhausted  as  to 
have  dwindled  to  a  mere  ribbon.  Further 
on,  it  apparently  tumbled  into  a  gully  and 
broke  its  neck,  for  it  appeared  no  more. 

Now,  at  the  point  of  the  road's  sudden  dis- 
appearance, a  vehicle — reduced  by  distance 
to  the  size  of  one  of  those  court-plaster 
coaches  which  used  to  adorn  the  blushing 
cheeks,  the  dimpled  chin,  or  the  pearly 
temples  of  a  belle  of  the  sixteenth  century 
— came  into  sight.  It  travelled  as  slowly 
as  a  beetle  who  has  a  ball  of  mud  to  carry, 
and  is  not  disposed  to  hurry  himself  about 
getting  home.  It  was  full  of  people,  and 
as  it  came  more  fully  into  sight  one  of  the 
liliputian  passengers  appeared  to  rise  and 
wave  a  pigmy  pocket-handkerchief. 

"  That'll  be  Miss  Rosevear,  I  reckon  !  " 
commented  the  interested  Aunt  Hosanna. 

"  Ay,  sure,"  said  Joan,  "  and  the  luggage 
butt  '11  not  be  long  behind." 

Sure  enough,  a  second  moving  excrescence 
appeared  in  the  wake  of  its  forerunner. 

24 


''A    VEHICLE      ....       CAME    INTO    SIGHT  "      /.   24. 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  My  kind  heart !  "  exclaimed  Aunt 
Hosanna,  in  great  excitement.  "  If  'em 
be'nt  a  goin'  to  ride  straight  threw  th' 
weather's  eye,  I'm  no  saved  sinner  !  "  She 
pointed  eagerly  as  she  spoke,  and  Joan's 
glance  followed  the  direction  of  her  finger. 
The  glories  of  the  broken  rainbow  had  been 
slowly  fading,  and  only  the  upper  portion 
retained  its  prismatic  loveliness.  This,  by 
an  ordinary  optical  delusion  of  distance, 
appeared  to  stand  across  the  downhill  road, 
which  the  laden  vehicles  were  traversing. 
In  another  second,  it  seemed,  the  far  off 
travellers  must  find  themselves  immersed 
in  a  diaphanous  bath  of  rays  ;  purple  and 
orange,  pink,  blue,  and  green. 

"  Well,  well  1  " 

"  Sure,  indeed !  "  (in  different  keys  of 
wonderment). 

The  crawling  wagonette  had  vanished  for 
one  moment.  Next,  its  dim  outlines  were 
clearly  traced  through  the  luminous  mist- 
curtain.  Then — the  rainbow  was  gone. 
"  Spliffed  like  a  soap-bibble,"  as  Aunt 
Hosanna  said. 

The  descent  grew  more  abrupt  at  this 
juncture,  the  wagonette  moved  more  quickly  ; 

25 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

the  lumbering  two-wheeled  country  butt 
that  followed  it  being  left  farther  and  farther 
behind.  Above  the  hill-ridge  a  swollen 
purplish  black  cloud  now  hung  threaten- 
ingly. The  outlines  of  rocks  and  trees  grew 
gradually  blurred.  The  cloud  was  descend- 
ing. Suddenly  an  extraordinary  transform- 
ation of  the  wagonette  took  place.  It 
became  a  covered  van.  Aunt  Hosanna's 
countenance,  which  had  expressed  bewil- 
derment, cleared  intelligently. 

"  Et  be  rainin'  up  to  yander,"  she  cried, 
'  'en  em's  putt  en  up  ther  umbrellies.  An* 
now  th'  sun's  shinin'  agean,  brave  an' 
cheery  on  the  way  'at  lies  afore  'em.  Tes 
for  aw  th'  world  like  a  foretellin'.  Hope 
hangin'  before  the  cheild  as  her  comes  back 
to  her  ould  home,  bright  wi'  aw  the  colours 
o'  th'  rainbow.  Sorra  then,  an'  tears  a 
nowin'.  And  then  happiness,  steady  an' 
lastin',  until  th'  end  !  " 


Ill 

THEY  dismounted  from  the  shabby  vehicle 
— some  carefully,  some  sleepily,  some  de- 
cidedly, some  impulsively,  according  to  their 
several  dispositions.  They  seemed  at  first 
sight  to  be  many,  although  they  numbered 
but  six.  Rosevear  Trelawney  was  the  first 
to  run  across  the  little  wooden  drawbridge, 
under  which  the  trout  stream  ran  gurgling. 
She  skimmed  up  the  steep  garden  path, 
which  Huey  Lenine  had  thoughtfully 
gravelled  with  whole  slates  in  anticipation 
of  the  great  arrival.  She  threw  her  young 
arms  round  Aunt  Hosanna's  neck  and 
hugged  her,  and  would  have  done  the  like 
by  Joan  Melhuish  in  the  exuberance  of  her 
heart,  had  that  shy  young  woman  been  of 
a  less  stately  and  dignified  presence.  Then 
she  turned,  and  after  the  fashion  of  Evan- 
gelist in  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  received 
the  weary  wanderers  one  by  one  as  they 
crossed  the  river  and  toiled  up  the  hill. 

27 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  Dear  Octavia,"  Miss  Wall,  clad  in  a 
serviceable  tweed,  turned  up  with  leather, 
and  wearing  a  deerstalker  of  severely  simple 
aspect,  from  beneath  the  brim  of  which  her 
spectacles  scintillated  a  little  less  enthu- 
siastically than  usual,  was  the  first  to  arrive 
after  her.  "  Welcome  to  Killigarth.  This 
is  henceforth  to  be  the  scene  of  our  united 
labours." 

"It  is  a  very  perpendicular  one,"  replied 
Octavia.  She  stood  beside  Rosevear  at  the 
porch  door,  and  looked  down  upon  the 
agricultural  pilgrims  as  they  came  pain- 
fully climbing  up.  "  I  am  afraid,"  she 
continued,  "  that  until  we  learn  to  adapt 
ourselves  to  the  locality  we  shall  be  causing 
dissension  by  rolling  down  upon  each  other 
when  engaged  in  our  several  acts  of  hus- 
bandry. I  should  like  an  introduction,  dear, 
to  this  elderly  person  who  has  curtsied  so 
many  times." 

Rosevear  performed  the  ceremony. 

"  Ee  be  kindly  welcome,  sir,"  said  Aunt 
Hosanna,  accepting  Octavia' s  proffered  hand. 
Then  she  uttered  a  sharp  cry.  "  Lawk, 
Joan  cheild,  din't  'ee  nidge  me  so  sharp. 
Aw  shud  a  seed  the  next  minnit  that  the 

28 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

gentleman  was  a  feymell.  Aw  humbly  ask 
'ee  pardon,  sir — ma'am,  I  mean." 

"  Don't  mention  it,"  said  Octavia. 

"  Aw  wun't,  sir, — ma'am,  I  mean,"  said 
Aunt  Hosanna. 

"  You  are  not  obliged  to  address  me  as 
ma'am  at  all,  my  good  soul,"  explained 
Octavia.  "  Feudal  deferences  and  Con- 
servative class-terms  are  out  of  place  under 
the  present  circumstances.  I  belong,  as 
do  the  other  persons  who  are  coming  up  the 
garden  path,  distinctively  and  objectively, 
to  the  Labouring  Classes.  I  shall  be  obliged 
if  you  will  remember  it." 

"  Sartinly,  ma'am — sir,  I  mean,"  replied 
Aunt  Hosanna. 

Meanwhile,  Rosevear  was  greeting  Lady 
Jane  Pegram. 

"  Dear  Lady  Jane,  this  is  a  proud  day  for 
me.  I  receive  in  my  own  house — I  shall 
not  call  it  mine  from  henceforth,  but  ours — 
the  most  progressive  woman  of  her  Age." 

"  At  forty-five,"  replied  Lady  Jane,  whose 
incisive  intelligence  was  somewhat  blunted 
by  ten  hours'  travelling ;  "at  forty-five  a 
woman  is  not  to  be  broken  down  by  a 
wobbly  railway  journey  in  a  second-class 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

carriage,  and  a  period  of  crampy  confine- 
ment in  a  wet  wagonette.  Those  Dormer 
girls  are  mere  jellies,  compared  with  me." 

They  were,  indeed,  in  a  pitiable  state  of 
limpness. 

"  Are  we  really  there  ?  "  bleated  Marjory, 
sinking  down,  a  mere  bundle  of  veils  and 
waterproofs,  on  one  of  the  porch  benches. 
"  Because  if  we  are  not,  I  must  stay  behind. 
If  we  have  made  up  our  minds  to  grow 
cabbages  and  things,  it  doesn't  follow  that 
we  are  to  make  ourselves  wandering 
Jews  !  " 

"  You  are  so  tired,  poor  thing  !  "  said  little 
Clara  Currey,  cheerfully,  "  that  you  don't 
know  what  you  are  saying.  Go  to  the  others, 
please,  Miss  Trelawney,  don't  mind  us. 
Now,  Marjory  dear,  there  is  a  fire  inside, 
and  tea  is  getting  ready — and  fried  ham  and 
eggs,  I  am  sure  by  the  frizzling — and  hot 
cake,  I  almost  think  I  smell  it." 

"  The  cake  at  Buszard's,"  sighed  Marjory. 
"  I  kept  dreaming  of  it  in  the  wagonette, 
and  the  jolts  regularly  woke  me  up  before  I 
had  tasted  a  morsel.  It  was  like  the  torture 
of  Tantamount  in  our  Heathen  Mythology 
at  school."  She  melted  into  hysterical  tears. 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  Hoist  her  up  on  the  other  side,  Fanny," 
pleaded  Clara.  "  She  is  really  upset  and 
wants  help." 

"  Let  her  help  herself,"  replied  Fanny, 
snappishly.  "  She  was  born  the  eldest  and 
ought  to  show  a  good  example." 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ?  "  said  poor  worried 
Clara,  standing  upright  and  letting  her 
arms  fall  helplessly  by  her  sides,  as  Fanny 
vanished  into  the  house,  which  had  begun 
to  be  alive  with  bustle  and  confusion. 

"  Ma'am  ?  " 

She  started  and  turned  round.  A  dark 
figure — unmistakably  masculine  in  outline — 
was  leaning  in  the  doorway. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  she  said  timidly. 

"  It's  just  nobody,"  said  Huey  Lenine, 
"  but  if  I  could  help  'ee  I  would  be  glad." 
He  received  Clara's  silence  as  an  acceptation 
of  his  services,  and  stooped  over  Marjory. 
"  Here's  a  poor  wisht  thing  !  '"  he  said  in 
gently  compassionate  accents.  "  If  'ee  would 

put  her  arm  on  my  shoulder,  ma'am ?  " 

Clara  lifted  Marjory's  arm  and  laid  it  across 
the  rough  guernsey.  Then,  almost  without 
an  effort,  the  man  raised  Marjory  Dormer 
from  the  bench. 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  Now  we'm  fare  bravely,"  he  said. 
"  Please  to  go  in,  ma'am,  before." 

The  opening  of  the  inner  door  threw  a 
strong  light  upon  his  face  as  he  nodded 
encouragingly  at  Clara.  He  held  aloof  to 
let  her  pass  in,  and  then  followed,  carrying 
his  whimpering  burden. 


IV 

MIDNIGHT  found  every  light  that  had 
sparkled  from  the  windows  of  Killigarth 
extinguished,  and  the  dwelling  possessed, 
apparently,  by  the  spirit  of  peaceful  sleep. 
Aunt  Hosanna  and  Joan  had  retired  to 
their  own  quarters  at  the  Mill-house,  the 
bedroom  accommodation  at  Killigarth  being 
too  limited  to  admit  of  their  passing  the 
nights  beneath  its  roof.  The  weary  wan- 
derers had  eaten  heartily — it  was  only  natural 
they  should  sleep  soundly.  But  towards  the 
small  hours  Lady  Jane  Pegram  awoke  with 
a  curdling  thrill.  The  keen  activity  of  her 
mind  pierced  through  the  armour  of  som- 
nolency, as  a  certain  vigilant  littk  sprite 
who  is  never  far  from  the  bedsides  of  middle- 
aged  maiden  ladies,  twitched  her  by  the 
sleeve  of  her  night-garment  and  whispered, 
shrilly,  "  Damp  sheets  !  " 
Lady  Jane  awoke  and  sat  upright.  The 
33  3 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

whisper  still  hissed  in  her  mental  ear.  She 
sprang  out  of  bed  and  lighted  her  candle  ; 
she  blamed  herself  severely  for  not  having 
subjected  her  bed,  before  she  got  into  it, 
to  the  infallible  test  invariably  applied  by 
her  to  all  strange  lairs — the  Ordeal  of  the 
Looking-Glass.  The  chamber  which  the 
candlelight  now  revealed  was  low-ceiled  and 
lattice-windowed.  The  floor  was  carpeted 
with  green  felt,  the  woodwork  was  painted 
white.  Lady  Jane  shuddered  as  she  descried 
what  appeared  to  her  dazzled  vision  to  be 
a  patch  of  mould  upon  the  wall-paper  in 
an  angle  by  the  chimney. 

She  held  her  breath  and  listened.  The 
regular  breathing  of  undisturbed  sleepers 
sounded  through  the  wooden  partition  which 
divided  her  chamber  from  that  shared  by 
Octavia  Wall  and  Clara  Currey.  She  would 
not  disturb  the  slumberers  without  due 
cause.  She  would  first  make  sure. 

There  was  no  toilet-glass  proper,  but  a 
little  square  mirror  hung  from  a  nail  above 
the  dressing-table.  Lady  Jane  unhooked 
the  mirror,  thrust  it  into  her  rumpled  couch, 
carefully  covered  it  over,  and,  regretting 
that  she  had  not  yet  unpacked  her  dressing- 

34 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

gown,  sat  down  upon  it,  and  awaited  results. 
Ten  minutes  passed,  she  awakened  with  a 
start  from  an  incipient  doze  and  uncovered 
the  looking-glass.  She  held  it  to  the  light 
— she  flattened  her  agitated  features  against 
her  own  reflection.  Surely,  surely,  a  slight 
but  fatal  film  obscured  the  glittering  surface  ? 
Yes  ?  No  !  Yes  ! 

Then  the  descendant  of  a  dozen  Earls 
sounded  the  tocsin  in  good  earnest  and 
roused  the  house. 

The  alarm  had  a  wonderfully  varying 
effect  upon  its  inmates,  according  to  their 
different  dispositions.  Some  sat  upright, 
sleepily,  and  disputed  the  infallibility  of 
the  wonderful  Looking-Glass  Test.  Others 
bounded  out  of  bed  as  smartly  as  india- 
rubber  mannikins,  and  reft  the  sheets  there- 
from as  violently  as  though  they  had  been 
suddenly  invested  with  the  invidious  pro- 
perties boasted  by  the  shirt  of  Nessus. 
Others  lay  still,  protesting  that  if  they  were 
to  have  rheumatic  fever  they  were  to  have 
it — it  was  written  just  so  in  the  Book  of 
Fate,  and  to  get  up  would  be  a  mere  straining 
of  the  bonds  of  the  Inevitable.  But  in  one 
way  or  another,  all  were  thoroughly  roused, 

35  3* 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

and  Lady  Jane,  as  she  retired  to  the  prickly 
security  of  her  blankets,  was  warmed  and 
elevated  by  the  conviction  that  she  had 
done  her  duty. 


THAT  first  breakfast  at  Killigarth  was  a 
memorable  one.  There  were  wonderful 
home-cured  rashers,  and  eggs  whose  want 
of  loudness  as  regarded  flavour  would  have 
failed  to  satisfy  the  critical  palate  of  the 
proverbial  London  street  Arab.  There  was 
a  mighty  bream,  flaky,  and  newly  caught, 
stuffed  with  bread-crumbs  and  sweet  herbs, 
and  roasted  after  a  cunning  recipe  on  which 
Aunt  Hosanna  prided  herself.  There  were 
loaves  new  and  smoking,  and  knowing  little 
hot  cakes.  There  were  also  Cornish  cream 
and  honey,  and  the  butter  was  as  golden  as 
if  King  Midas,  of  classical  memory,  had  had 
a  finger  in  putting  up  the  pats. 

Rosevear,  in  her  welcome  of  the  previous 
evening,  had  made  her  farewell  to  airs  of 
proprietorship,  and  dismantled  herself  of 
the  dignity  of  hostess.  Lady  Jane  Pegram 
was,  at  Miss  Trelawney's  suggestion,  elected 
into  the  place  of  honour  in  front  of  the 

37 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

teapot  and  the  coffee- jug.  This  last-named 
article  was  of  the  hot-water  description, 
and  had  suffered  chips  in  the  service  of  the 
previous  occupant  of  Killigarth.  This  ill- 
used  person,  upon  receipt  of  a  lawyer's 
letter  inviting  the  payment  of  seven  quarters' 
back-rent  due,  had  chosen  to  evacuate  the 
premises  rather  than  be  untrue  to  his  innate 
conviction  regarding  the  absolute  unfitness 
of  a  woman  to  be  entrusted  with  ready 
money.  Silently,  and  under  the  shades  of 
night,  he  had  flitted  from  Killigarth  ;  taking 
with  him  in  the  perturbation  of  his  last 
farewell  more  than  one  article  of  household 
importance  which  prominently  figured  upon 
his  landlady's  inventory.  But  he  had  not 
been  able  to  take  everything  ;  he  had  left 
the  new  inmates  beds  enough  to  lie  on, 
chairs  enough  to  sit  down  on,  and  plates, 
forks,  and  tumblers  nearly  enough  to  go 
round ;  and  for  that,  as  Aunt  Hosanna, 
who  had  been  acquainted  with  him,  said, 
they  ought  to  be  grateful. 

To  see  Lady  Jane,  in  magnificent  oblivion 
of  the  glories  of  her  pedigree,  eating  roasted 
fish  with  a  two-pronged  steel  fork,  was  a 
sight  to  rouse  enthusiasm  in  the  most  callous 

38 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

bosom.  The  alarm  of  the  previous  night 
had  been  proved  without  foundation.  Aunt 
Hosanna  and  Joan  were  ready  to  take 
their  Bible  oaths  that  the  walls,  the  mat- 
tresses, the  blankets,  and  the  sheets  were 
as  bone-dry  as  roaring  fires  of  brushwood 
heaped  up  in  the  wide  chimneys  and  kept 
constantly  replenished  could  make  them. 
In  that  respect  Killigarth  was  faultless, 
and  if  any  member  of  the  Limited  Liability 
Company  of  Female  Fruit  and  Flower  Gar- 
deners had  come  down  there  expressly  to 
catch,  and  die  of,  rheumatic  fever,  the 
chances  were  ten  to  one  that  in  the  end  that 
person  would  have  to  go  home  alive  and 
disappointed. 

The  room  in  which  the  Limited  Liability 
Company  of  Female  Fruit  and  Flower  Gar- 
deners were  assembled  at  breakfast  was 
the  principal  room  of  the  house,  which  made 
no  boast  of  anything  like  architectural  pre- 
tension. It  ran  nearly  the  whole  length  of 
the  ground  floor,  and  opened  directly  upon 
a  glass  porch,  the  roof  of  which  was  covered 
with  the  clusters  of  a  vine,  which  poked  its 
head  in  familiarly  through  a  hole  in  the 
foundation  wall,  where  a  brick  had  been 

39 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

knocked  out  for  its  express  accommodation. 
All  the  woodwork  about  Killigarth  had  been 
painted  a  brilliant  white,   and  under  other 
conditions     the     low,     heavy-beamed     ceil- 
ings,    massive     doors,     and     high     wains- 
cotings   would   have    sucked    up    the   light 
as  sponge  absorbs  water.     At  the  north  end 
of   the   long    room   was    a   projecting   brick 
chimney,  whose  capacious  throat  might  have 
accommodated    a    corporal    and    file.     The 
hearth  was  lined  with   glazed  brown   tiles, 
and  upon  these  stood  an  old-fashioned  fire- 
basket,   in  which  some  logs  of  apple-wood 
were  merrily  blazing.     Across  the  steel  dogs 
which  flanked  it  rested  a  poker,   or  rather 
fire-prong,  some  five  feet  long ;  in  appear- 
ance  the   veritable    instrument    with   which 
old    Gooseberry    is    represented    in    missal 
paintings  of  the  Middle  Ages  as  stirring  up 
the     half-done     souls     writhing    upon    his 
demoniac    gridiron.     A     long     double-case- 
mented  window,  whose  broad-cushioned  seat 
hinted  at  future  siestas,  ran  at  right  angles 
with  the  chimney,  and  at  the  south  end  of 
the  room   or  hall,   as   it   might   have   been 
called,    a   staircase   of   antique    design    up- 
sprang  to  vanish  in  the  mysterious  regions 

40 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

above.  Opposite  the  staircase  was  a  door 
leading  into  the  kitchen,  and  side  by  side 
with  this  a  deep  well-cupboard,  glass-fronted, 
and  of  chastely  simple  design,  exhibited  a 
limited  collection  of  household  crockery, 
both  sprigged  and  willow-patterned. 

"  I  told  you,"  said  Fanny  Dormer,  who 
fancied  that  Clara  Currey  looked  on  her 
with  coldness,  "  that  there  was  nothing 
much  the  matter  with  Marjory.  She  is 
always  either  very  cheerful  or  absolutely 
miserable  ;  as  full  of  ups  and  downs  as  the 
Switchback  Railway." 

"  When  that  obliging  person  in  a  blue 
guernsey  and  sea-boots  came  in,  carrying 
her  in  his  arms,"  said  Lady  Jane,  dryly, 
"  I  could  not  imagine  what  had  happened." 
Fanny  shrieked  with  unsisterly  laughter, 
and  Marjory  grew  as  red  as  a  rose. 

"  I  could  not  have  walked  another  step, 
not  to  have  called  the  Queen  my  aunt,"  she 
asserted.  "  I  was  suffering  agonies — posi- 
tively agonies.  I  had  on  a  pair  of  new  boots, 
not  in  the  least  tight,  but  what  one  would 
call  a  close  fit ;  and  when  that  man  who 
drove  the  wagonette  asked  us  if  we  would 
oblige  his  beast  by  walking  up  the  hills,  I 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

consented  as  readily  as  anyone,  without 
the  slightest  idea  that  the  road  was  going 
to  be  uphill  from  start  to  finish.  Con- 
sequently  " 

Octavia  rapped  the  table  with  the  end  of 
a  fork. 

"  Infringement  of  Rule  Three  !  "  she  cried. 
'  Tight  boots  do  not  come  under  the  head- 
ing of  sensible  dress,  or  I  am  very  much 
mistaken." 

"  I  said  a  close  fit,  not  a  tight  one," 
contradicted  Miss  Dormer  ;  "  and  boots 
don't  come  under  the  heading  of  '  dress ' 
at  all,  so  there  !  " 

"  Did  you  never  hear  of  dress-boots, 
goophy  ? "  exclaimed  Fanny,  contemptu- 
ously. 

Marjory's  soft  dark  eyes  began  to  fill 
with  plaintive  tears. 

"  Don't  peck,  Fan,"  interposed  Rosevear, 
kindly.  "  There  will  be  no  fine,  Marjory, 
my  child,  as  it  is  a  first  fault.  But  take  my 
advice,  and  put  those  boots  away  until  you 
return  to  the  fashionable  world  again  ;  for 
it  were  better  to  enter  into  the  gardening 
business  with  one  shoe — and  that  a  No.  8 — 
than " 

42 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  Rosevear  Trelawney  !  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Lady  Jane.  I  had 
no  intention  of  parodying  Scripture.  I  felt 
— I  really  felt  as  though  I  had  got  hold  of 
an  unhackneyed  quotation." 

Lady  Jane  withdrew  the  hereditary  glance 
of  the  Earls  of  Llwddllm,  and  smiled  for- 
givingly as  from  the  kitchen,  the  door 
leading  to  which  stood  a  little  ajar,  came 
the  sound  of  clinking  crockery  and  the 
following  dialogue  : 

"  Well,  A'nt  'Sanna,  how  do  'ee  fare  ?  " 

"  Charmin',  ma  son.     How's  f aether  ?  " 

"  Brave,  thank  'ee." 

"  Pelchards  plentiful  ?  " 

"  Middlin'.  We  were  out  wi*  the  flood 
by  tew  thes  mornin'  an'  hauled  three 
thousan'." 

"  Bless  th'  Lord  ! 

'  A  might-ee  shayt  latt  down  fram  Heaven 
Wi'  liv-in'  things  ful-nll-ed, 
Then  Pay-ter  knawed  th'  Lord  hed  given, 
An'  he  a-rose  en  kill-ed,'  ' 

sang  Aunt  Hosanna,  shrilly,  sweeping  the 
kitchen  floor.  There  was  a  pause.  The 
listeners  exchanged  amused  glances. 

43 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  She  is  a  perfect  character,  is  not  she  ?  " 
whispered  Lady  Jane. 

Huey  Lenine  spoke  again. 

"  Would  th'  ladies  be  wanting  any  fish, 
thinky  ?  Aw  browt  a  string  o'  pollock  up 
wi'  me,  on  th'  chance." 

"  Aw'll  ask  they  atter  em's  had  ther 
breakfasts,  ma  son.  They  be  at  en  now, 
though  'tis  midday  or  nerly." 

"  Well,  well !  "  ejaculated  Huey  in  a  deep 
bass  murmur  of  surprise. 

"  Tis  against  th'  ordnances  of  God  and 
man,  aw  dew  say.  Moreover,  aw  be  cruel 
clittered  to  vind  out  who's  mistress,  or  who 
beant.  'Tis  a  pelly-melly  o'  feymells,  arl 
givin'  orders  at  once,  so  that  like  a  tud 
under  a  harra,  aw  din't  knaw  whichee  corse 
to  steer." 

"  'Tis  Miss  Trelawney's  house,  sure  to 
certain ! >] 

"  Her  have  turned  it  into  a  joint  stock 
comp'ny,  her  saith.  'Em  be  arl  mis' esses, 
aw  tell  'ee,  from  the  spectacled  sheymell 
dressed  i'  trouser-cloth  down  to  th'  one 
'em  du  call  Lady  Jane.  Her  be  a  nice,  dry, 
sensible  body,  if,  like  Nanny  Painter's 
hens,  very  high  upon  the  legs." 

44 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  Spltzwddllch !  " 

Clara  Currey  had  choked  over  her  cup  of 
coffee.  Rosevear,  with  eyes  that  brimmed 
over  with  suppressed  mirth,  and  dancing 
dimples,  rose  and  softly  closed  the  kitchen 
door.  Lady  Jane,  with  ostentatious  com- 
posure, asked  whether  anybody  would  take 
another  cup  of  tea.  Octavia  began  to  talk 
very  rapidly. 

"  Domestic  life  in  the  Middle  Ages,"  she 
said,  in  her  best  platform  manner,  "  when 
the  salt-cellar  was  the  only  Rubicon  that 
separated  the  noble  from  his  hireling,  and 
great  and  small  dipped  their  hands  in  the 
same  dish,  must  have  conduced  to  the  estab- 
lishment of  a  warm  Bond  of  mutual  sym- 
pathy between  the  upper  and  lower  classes." 

The  ceiling  trembled.  Joan  Melhuish  was 
upstairs  making  the  beds.  As  she  moved 
about  in  her  thick  country  shoes,  the  painted 
planks  gallopaded  upon  their  supporting 
joists,  and  the  joists  themselves  creaked  sug- 
gestively. Octavia  went  on  : 

"  Under  modern  conditions  the  employer 
and  the  employed  are  as  far  asunder  as  in- 
habitants of  different  planets.  The  old  state 
of  things,  believe  me,  was  the  healthier,  the 

45 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

nobler,  the  more  natural.  The  thinner  the 
Barrier  that  divides  us  from  our  humbler 
fellow-creatures ' ' 

Joan  pulled  a  bed  out  from  against  the 
wall,  noisily. 

"  From  those  who,  after  all,  possess  feel- 
ings, instincts,  desires,  intentions,  in  common 
with  ourselves,  the  better.  The  wider  the 
chinks  in  the  partition,"  Octavia  glanced  at 
the  boards  overhead,  "  the  more  easily " 

She  stopped.  A  hair-pin,  a  large,  coarse, 
common  hair-pin  had  fallen  from  above ; 
it  rattled  on  her  plate.  Aunt  Hosanna's 
entry  relieved  them  from  the  awkward  situa- 
tion. She  brought  with  her  a  flat  brown- 
paper  parcel,  tied  squajrely  with  pink  tape. 
Attached  to  this  was  a  key  of  ponderous 
size. 

"  'Tes  th'  key  o'  th'  front  door,"  she  ex- 
plained, handing  instrument  and  parcel  to 
Miss  Trelawney.  Then  she  proceeded  to 
clear  away  the  breakfast  things. 

The  parcel  contained  a  letter.  As  Rose- 
vear  perused  the  missive  her  countenance 
became  expressive  of  so  many  conflicting 
emotions  that  her  companions  could  hardly 
restrain  their  curiosity. 

46 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  You  are  right,  Lady  Jane,"  she  said, 
after  a  moment  or  two,  meeting  the  intuition 
in  that  lady's  eyes.  "  This  letter  comes 
from  Mr.  Pengwillian." 

"  Your  defaulting  tenant  ?  I  guessed  as 
much,"  exclaimed  Lady  Jane.  "  It  seems 
to  interest  you.  May  we  hear  it  ?  " 

Rosevear  handed  her  the  letter.  She  read 
it  aloud.  It  ran  as  follows  : — 

"  Killigarth,  August  2oth. 

"  DEAR  MADAM, — It  is  with  surprise  that  I  learn 
per  medium  of  a  letter  from  the  firm  of  Messrs.  Pepper 
and  Co.,  Solicitors,  Lincoln's  Inn,  London,  your  deter- 
mination to  employ  legal  measures  for  the  recovery 
of  £70  6s.  8Jd.  (seventy  pounds  six  shillings  and  eight- 
pence  halfpenny),  being  amount  alleged  by  you  to  be 
due  for  seven  quarters'  rent  of  the  Killigarth  estate, 
now  under  occupation  by  me.  The  sum  demanded 
by  you  is  a  considerable  one,  and  not  to  be  lightly  thrown 
away.  Rather  than  pander  to  the  extravagances  of  a 
thoughtless  ajid  frivolous  young  lady,  I  have  decided, 
after  earnest  self-communing,  to  vacate  the  premises. 
The  expenses,  &c.,  of  moving  will  be  considerable,  but, 
under  the  circumstances,  I  feel  that  it  is  my  duty  to 
overlook  them.  As  I  am  leaving  the  country,  all 
att  mpt  on  your  part  to  renew  the  unwomanly  persecu- 
tion to  which  you  have  subjected  me  will  be  useless. 
"  I  remain,  Madam, 

"  (more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger), 
"  JOHN  PENGWILLIAN." 

"  In  the  whole  course  of  my  experience/' 
47 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

said    Lady    Jane,    emphatically,    "  I    never 
read  such  an  extraordinary  communication." 

"  It  makes  one  feel  as  if  one  were  in  Look- 
ing-glass Land,"  cried  Fanny  Dormer.  "  It 
is  difficult  to  realise  that  this  injured  being 
really  announces  in  these  pathetic  sentences 
his  intention  of  shooting  the  moon." 

'  With  seventy  pounds  six  and  eightpence 
halfpenny  of  your  money  in  his  pocket," 
added  Marjory. 

"  I  shouldn't  have  minded  that  so  much 
if  he  had  left  more  of  the  furniture  behind 
him,"  said  Rosevear,  ruefully.  "  However, 
the  letter  comes  too  late  to  astonish  us." 

She  tossed  it  into  the  fire  contemptuously. 

"  We  won't  let  Mr.  Pengwillian  spoil  our 
morning.  See " — she  led  the  way,  bare- 
headed, out  of  doors,  and  all  the  others 
followed  her — "  see  how  the  sun  is  shining, 
and  the  hills — the  heavenly  hills — are  all 
about  us.  And  listen — though  they  hide 
the  sea  from  us,  one  can  tell  that  it  is  near — 
one  can  hear  it  beating  on  its  jagged  head- 
lands, and  booming  in  its  hollow  caves  like 
a  great  restless,  living  thing.  Who  could 
be  worried,  who  could  be  out  of  sorts,  amidst 
such  sights,  such  sounds  as  these  ?  " 

48 


\VOUI.D   'III'    l.AHIF.S    BE    \VANTINC;    ANY    FISH,    THINKY  ?  "      /.  44. 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

They  stood  upon  a  roughly-gravelled  path 
that  ran  before  the  windows  of  the  room 
they  had  just  left.  Behind  them  was  a 
border  of  lavender,  sweet-williams,  and  mari- 
golds, that  ran  gay  riot  about  the  stems  of 
the  straggling  rose-bushes  that  climbed  along 
the  casements.  Before  them  lay  an  un- 
evenly trimmed  lawn  of  coarse  grass,  beyond 
it  spread  away  a  wilderness  of  unkempt 
garden.  The  atmosphere  was  splendidly  ex- 
hilarating— aerial  champagne.  The  sky  was 
of  a  burning  cloudless  blue,  the  sun  shone 
divinely,  pleasant  smells  saluted  their  nos- 
trils, and  grasshoppers  buzzed,  and  thrushes 
whistled  a  pleasant  accompaniment. 

"  My  dears,"  said  Lady  Jane,  expanding 
as  she  drank  in  the  pleasant  scene,  "  we  have 
all  the  materials  here  for  the  making  of  a 
perfect  Paradise.  Get  your  hats,  girls,  and 
let  us  examine  every  corner,  investigate 
every  possibility  of  this  embryo  Eden." 
Her  tone  changed.  "  Is  that  person  in  the 
distance  a  retainer  attached  to  the  estab- 
lishment," she  pointed  to  a  bent  elderly  figure 
in  the  immediate  perspective,  "or  a  tres- 
passer upon  the  premises  ?  " 

'  Let   us   go   down   and   ask   him,"   cried 
49  4 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

Rosevear.  "  Why,  I  believe  it  is  Dicky 
Daisy !  Yes,  it  certainly  is  Dicky,  alive 
and  cutting  cabbages.  Good  morning, 
Dicky !  " 

"  Marnin',"  answered  the  ancient  rustic 
gruffly,  lifting  up  a  preternaturally  wrinkled 
face,  a  chart  which  might  have  served  old 
Time  himself  to  steer  by.  He  straightened 
himself,  leaning  upon  a  patriarchal  staff, 
and  peering  from  under  his  bushy  white 
brows  at  the  young  lady.  His  long  white 
smock-frock  fell  nearly  to  his  heels,  his  hat 
was  a  pre-historic  felt  pudding-basin.  Lady 
Jane  was  much  interested  in  the  appear- 
ance of  the  venerable  old  man. 

A  pile  of  cabbages  lay  at  the  ancient's  feet. 

"  For  whom  are  you  cutting  those  cab- 
bages ?  "  asked  Miss  Trelawney. 

Dicky  answered  surlily,  "  'Em  be  fur  the 
'ould  'oman  to  home.  Mester  Pengwillian 
he  gived  of  'em  to  I.  '  Dicky,'  him  zed, 
"  ee  can  'ave  awl  es  is  'eer,  'tis  my  free 
ungrudgin'  gift  to  'ee,'  zed  'im.  Alwis  a 
hoppen  'andid  gentleman,  Mester  Pen- 
gwillian !  " 

"With  other  people's  property, "retorted 
Rosevear,  flushing  hotly.  This  last  audacity 

50 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

on  the  part  of  the  defaulting  Pengwillian 
had  roused  her  wrath.  "  Do  not  you  know, 
Dicky,"  she  said  more  gently,  "  that  these 
cabbages  are  mine,  not  Mr.  Pengwillian's  ? 
— they  belong  to  me  and  to  these  ladies, 
and  you  cannot  carry  them  away  without 
our  permission." 

But  Dicky  had  become  suddenly  deaf. 


4* 


VI 

"  MY  dear,"  said  Lady  Jane  compassion- 
ately, "  expostulations  are  useless.  This 
poor  old  person  is  evidently  deaf  !  " 

"  Dif  ?  "  echoed  Aunt  Hosanna  from  be- 
hind them,  in  shrill  accents  of  sarcastic 
indignation.  "  There's  none  so  dif  as  'em 
as  wunt  'eer  !  Him  can  'eer  so  well  as  'ee 
or  me,  aw  reckon,  till  when  'im  chooses  ; 
wicked  ould  sawl  as  a'  be'eth  !  " 

Dicky  Daisy's  bleared  eye  lost  its  vacuity 
of  expression.  He  left  off  cutting  cabbages, 
and  with  more  nimbleness  than  might  have 
been  expected  of  his  years,  tucked  a  sin- 
gularly fine  specimen  of  the  hardy  esculent  in 
question  under  each  arm,  shouldered  bill- 
hook and  staff,  and  hobbled  away.  They 
followed,  and  overtook  him  at  the  back- 
garden  gate.  Here  stood  a  pannier-laden 
donkey  of  miserable  aspect  and  liliputian 
proportions.  Its  bridle  was  firmly  grasped 
by  Joan  Melhuish,  who  stoutly  resisted  the 

52 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

efforts  of  the  aged  marauder  to  escape  with 
his  booty. 

"  He've  got  ten  gallon  o'  potatoes  be- 
sides," she  shouted,  as  Aunt  Hosanna  ap- 
peared upon  the  scene,  "  an'  French  beans, 
an*  the  dear  knaws  what  all." 

"  He  says  that  Mr.  Pengwillian  gave  them 
to  him,"  said  Rosevear. 

Aunt  Hosanna  lifted  her  hands  and  eyes 
in  scandalised  astonishment. 

"  Ma  dear  sensis  !  Who  iver  heard  the 
like  ?  Yet  tes  trew  as  'm  sayth,  aw  du 
b'lieve.  Th'  crater  vare  to  vind  er  livin' 
for  he  and  his  wife,  wi'  peddlin'  green  sauce 
en  garden-trade,  en  such  like ;  en  bein' 
a  little  queerish  in  a's  wits  en  bein'  used  t' 
comin'  en  goo'n  about  the  place,  by  times, 
'm  tak'th  the  'ords  o'  that  boldacious  ould 
Pengwillian,  for  gospel  trew." 

"Tell  him,"  said  Rosevear,  "that  he 
can  keep  what  he  has  taken  to-day,  but  he 
must  never  dream  of  helping  himself  again 
without  permission.  We  may,  if  he  knocks 
at  the  back  door,  and  asks  in  a  proper 
manner,  make  him  a  small  present  of  vege- 
tables occasionally.  But  he  must  under- 
stand," she  spoke  with  warmth  and 

53 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

decision,  "  that  Mr.  Pengwillian  has  nothing 
further  to  do  with  Killigarth,  or  with  us. 
And  that  he  is  a  dishonest  person,  who 
deserves  to  be  treated  with  the  utmost 
rigour  of  the  law,"  she  concluded  with 
flashing  eyes* 

"  Lord  bless  'ee,  my  dear,"  ejaculated 
Aunt  Hosanna,  "  tes  no  use  sayin'  arl  thicky 
tew  th'  pore  sawl !  'Twill  be  poured  in  at 
one  ear  t'  run  out  threw  th'  other.  We  'm 
just  keep  th'  gate  padlocked,  en  our  eyes 
oppen.  Le'  go  th'  donkey's  bri'le,  Joan, 
cheild." 

Joan  obeyed,  and  the  released  Richard 
clambered  up  behind  his  panniers  and  trotted 
down  the  lane,  with  the  ample  skirts  of  his 
long  white  smock-frock  fluttering  behind 
him. 

"  And  now,"  said  Rosevear,  "  we  will 
walk  over  the  estate." 


54 


VII 

THEY  explored  every  corner  of  the  orchard, 
the  home-field,  and  the  paddock.  They 
went  over  every  inch  of  garden-ground. 
Not  a  present  advantage,  not  a  practical 
possibility  that  the  place  afforded,  escaped 
the  united  observation  of  the  Limited  Lia- 
bility Company  of  Female  Fruit  and  Flower 
Gardeners.  Here  a  greenhouse  was  to  be 
erected ;  there  a  subterranean  cavern  of 
the  newest  design,  was  to  be  excavated,  with 
an  eye  to  the  propagation  of  mushrooms. 
The  sites  of  cucumber  frames  and  forcing- 
beds  were  determined,  and  a  poultry-run 
projected,  in  close  juxtaposition  with  a 
duck-yard,  the  middle  of  which  was  to  be 
occupied  by  a  Roman  bath  of  cement, 
constantly  to  be  kept  filled  with  water  for 
the  benefit  of  the  aforementioned  amphi- 
bious biped.  To  each  young  woman  her 
occupation  was  assigned,  it  being  absolutely 
necessary  that  each  member  of  the  Company 

55 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

should  assume  her  own  little  burden  of 
separate  responsibilities,  if  future  clashing 
was  to  be  avoided.  Lady  Jane  Pegram 
was  unanimously  elected  to  the  command- 
ing post  of  Accountant-General  and  Presi- 
dent of  the  Poultry-yard. 

"  We  keep  poultry  at  Llwddllm,"  she  said, 
"  outwardly  for  show,  really  for  use.  In- 
deed, we  may  be  said  to  support  existence 
mainly  upon  boiled  and  roast  chicken,  for 
the  butcher's  visits  are,'  she  sighed,  "few 
and  far  between.  The  man's  ancestors  have 
supplied  our  family  with  meat  for  hundreds 
of  years,  and  the  unpaid  bill  has  become  a 
sort  of  heirloom  ;  handed  down  from  father 
to  son,  and  growing  larger  with  each  suc- 
cessive generation,  but  the  present  repre- 
sentative of  the  family  has  lately  developed 
Radical  tendencies,  which  are  regrettable 
for  several  reasons." 

She  sighed,  and  Clara  Currey,  who  was  a 
sensitive  and  sympathetic  little  creature, 
patted  her  consolingly.  Clara  and  Marjory 
Dormer  were  to  be  associated  in  the  care 
of  the  greenhouse. 

"  I  think  the  work  will  suit  me,"  said 
Marjory,  reflectively.  "  I  have  always 

56 


PILK   OF   CABBAOBS    LAY    AT    THB    AXCIEXT'S    KBBT."       f>.   50. 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

thought  glass-gardeners  must  have  rather  a 
nice  time  of  it.  ...  I  shall  wear  gloves, 
and  go  about  snipping  things  with  scissors, 
or  squirting  at  them  with  a  syringe,  and  if 
there  are  any  ladders  to  be  climbed  there 
will  be  Clara  at  hand.  She  is  a  dear  good- 
natured  little  creature  ;  and  not  as  liable 
to  giddiness  as  I  am." 

"  Oxford  Street  and  Buszard's  being 
several  hundred  miles  away,"  hinted  Fanny 
Dormer,  "  we  shall  hear  less  of  Marjory's 
giddinesses." 

"  They  are  constitutional,  and  not  bilious," 
said  Marjory,  defensively,  "  but  it  is  useless 
to  expect  anything  like  sympathy  from  a 
person  of  my  own  family.  Sisters  seem  to 
rejoice,  especially,  in  saying  unpleasant  things. 
By  the  way,  your  hair  has  lost  all  those  gold 
reflections  already.  I  suppose  it  is  the  effect 
of  the  climate.  People  say  it  is  so  strong 
down  here  ;  or  perhaps  you  have  made  up 
your  mind  to  let  it  go  back  to  its  natural 
colour." 

"  Who  is  saying  unpleasant  things  now  ?  " 
cried  Fanny.  "  Yes,  under  the  present  cir- 
cumstances, my  twin  " — Marjory  and  Fanny 
had  come  into  the  world  within  fifteen 

57 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

minutes  of  one  another — "  under  the  present 
circumstances,  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to 
abandon  all  artificial  aids  to  ugliness,  and 
give  the  good  folks  of  Porthporra  the  full 
benefit  of  my  unperoxided  and  unpowdered 
charms.  For  if  we  are  to  do  any  good  down 
here,"  said  Fanny,  fixing  Marjory  with  a 
glance  of  unsisterly  triumph,  "  we  must 
rise  with  the  early  worm,  and  go  to  bed 
with  the  bird  that  breakfasts  on  him." 

"  Fanny  is  right,"  cried  Octavia,  to  whom 
the  guardianship  of  the  orchard  had  been 
assigned,  perhaps  with  a  view  to  the  facilities 
for  tree-climbing  afforded  by  her  abbreviated 
skirts  and  corsetless  waist.  "  Early  rising 
is  among  the  strictest  of  our  rules.  Cold 
pig — if  Marjory  had  ever  spent  a  term  at 
Girton,  she  would  know  the  meaning  of  cold 
pig — is  the  least  of  the  punishments  which 
will  be  visited  upon  the  slothful.  Laziness 
is  a  disease — yes,  a  disease,  which  must 
be  drastically  dealt  with,  and  will,  while  I 
am  a  member  of  this  community." 

Her  spectacles  gleamed  with  determination. 
Marjory  felt  that  her  doom  was  sealed. 

"  You  and  I,  Fan,"  said  Rosevear  Tre- 
lawney,  "  are  to  divide  the  responsibilities 

58 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

of  the  flower  and  vegetable  departments 
between  us."  She  looked  about  her  as 
Alexander  might  have  looked  had  a  new  and 
unconquered  world  presented  itself  before 
him.  "  Endless  vistas  of  luxuriant  possi- 
bilities are  sprouting  already,"  she  went 
on,  "  in  my  mind's  eye.  I  think,  Fanny, 
that  a  charge — a  small  charge,  will  be 
necessary,  in  case  of  visitors  who  wish  to 
be  shown  over  the  gardens.  Our  roses,  our 
strawberries,  our  dahlias,  and  our  wall-fruit 
are  going  to  be  the  talk  of  the  county.  Yes, 
a  charge  will  be  absolutely  necessary.  I  leave 
it  to  you  to  determine  the  amount." 

"  Sixpence  ?  "  hazarded  Fanny,  rather 
awed  by  the  foreseeing  powers  of  the  young 
prophetess. 

"  Sixpence !  Sixpence  for  wasting  our 
valuable  time  on  gaping  sightseers  ?  Six- 
pence for  ravishing  the  eyes,  delighting  the 
noses,  and  stimulating  the  appetites  of 
humanity  at  large  ?  My  dear  Fan,  admission 
will  be  cheap — dirt  cheap — at  a  shilling.  The 
cost  of  seeds,  guano,  bass,  tan  dressing,  wood 
fibre,  and  other  horticultural  necessities,  will 
be  entirely  defrayed  by  those  entrance 
shillings,  remember." 

59 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  It  seems,  doesn't  it,"  expostulated  Fanny, 
"  like  counting  our " 

Rosevear  pounced  upon  her  with  staggering 
swiftness  of  repartee. 

"  To  count  chickens  before  they  are  hatched 
is  the  absolute  duty  of  a  gardener,  male  or 
female.  Look  at  the  orchard.  All  those 
very  old  apple-trees  are  going  to  be  cut  down 
for  firewood  and  new  ones  will  be  planted 
in  their  places.  In  ten  years'  time  or  so 
those  trees  will  have  reached  the  perfection  of 
their  bearing.  What  do  you  say  to  that  ?  " 

"  I  say,"  replied  the  unabashed  Fanny, 
"  that  none  of  us  are  likely  to  taste  any 
puddings  made  of  their  apples  in  ten  years' 
time.  We  shall  all  be  married  and  settled 
ere  that  epoch  arrives.  At  least,  I  shall 
be." 

"  Considering  the  remoteness  of  the  locality, 
and  the  determination  we  have  unanimously 
expressed  with  regard  to  the  exclusion  of 
persons  of  the  opposite  sex  from  intercourse 
with  our  community,"  Octavia  remarked 
chillingly,  "  I  should  very  much  like  to  know 
how  your  matrimonial  intentions  are  to  be 
carried  out  ?  " 

"  I'm  sorry  I  can't  inform  you,"  returned 
60 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

the  unblushing  one,  "  as  at  present  I  don't 
know.  But  I  do  know  this,  that  things  go 
by  contiaries.  Here  have  Marjory  and  1 
been  trying,  earnestly  and  prayerfully  trying, 
to  get  comfortably  settled  for  the  last  six 
years.  Six  years  and  fifteen  minutes  on 
Marjory's  part,  as  she  was  born  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  before  me.  Well,  we  haven't 
succeeded,  and  now  we're  going  to  flee  from 
the  men — not  that  they've  persecuted  us 
much — and  take  to  growing  gooseberries, 
instead  of  picking  them  for  one  another. 
What  will  be  the  result  ?  Why,  the  one 
that  is  inevitable,  all  the  world  over.  The 
moment  we've  begun  to  hug  the  idea  of 
celibacy,"  it  was  Fanny's  turn  now  to  assume 
the  airs  of  a  prophetess,  "  husbands-elect  will 
come  along — in  shoals  !  Octavia  may  lock 
the  door,  but  they  will  clamber  down  the 
chimney.  I  shouldn't  wonder,"  said  the 
audacious  girl,  "  if  she  wasn't,  for  all  her  airs, 
one  of  the  first  to  fall  a  victim." 

Octavia' s  face  at  this  daring  flight  of 
imagination  on  Fanny's  part  was  an  interest- 
ing study. 

'  We  will  not  argue  with  you,  Fanny," 
she  said,  chillingly.  "It  is  to  be  regretted 

61 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

that  your  principles  are  not  more  matured, 
and  your  protestations  based  on  a  more 
substantial  foundation  of  sincerity.  But  you 
are  young,  and  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  time 
will  bring  you  both  ripeness  and  solidity." 

"  I  hope  I  shah1  be  gathered  before  the 
ripeness  gets  too  pronounced,"  retorted  the 
irrepressible  Fanny,  "  and  as  to  the  solidity, 
I  turn  the  scale  at  ten  stone  now,  there  is 
every  probability  of  my  becoming  a  female 
Daniel  Lambert  by  and  by.  When  I  was 
a  little  girl  at  school  and  didn't  want  it  to 
rain  upon  a  holiday,  I  used  to  make  believe 
that  I  didn't  care — that  I  rather  wanted 
wet  weather  than  otherwise."  She  ran  away 
from  her  scandalised  associates  when  she 
had  reached  this  part  of  her  speech,  and 
stopped  before  she  had  got  out  of  earshot, 
and  finished  it  defiantly.  "  Therefore,  I 
hope  as  earnestly  as  every  one  of  you  that, 
down  here  at  Killigarth  it  may  never,  never, 
never — rain — 

'ELIGIBLE  YOUNG  MEN.'  " 

Then,  appalled  by  her  own  audacity,  she 
turned  and  fled. 

62 


VIII 

"  SPLENDID  !  " 

"  Grand  !  " 

"  Heavenly  !  " 

"  If  I  have  a  fault  to  find  with  Killigarth, 
it  is  that  it  lies  in  a  basin,  and  the  view  is 
too  circumscribed.  If  we  had  this  to  look 
out  upon  always  !  "  Clara  Currey  drew  a  long 
breath. 

"  You  would  soon  get  tired  of  it,  magnifi- 
cent as  it  is.  And  when  the  wild  nor'- 
easters  blew,  and  the  breakers,  some  of  them 
over  a  hundred  feet  high,  were  hurling  them- 
selves against  these  jagged,  tortured  cliffs, 
you  would  wish  yourself  snugly  tucked  up 
in  the  valley  again,"  said  Miss  Trelawney. 

They  stood  by  the  ruins  of  what  had  once 
been  a  tiny  chapel,  perched  on  the  hill-top, 
full  three  hundred  feet  above  Porthporra 
harbour,  and  looked  down  upon  the  quaint 
little  fishing-village,  which  lies  nestling 

63 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

between  the  rocky  j  aws  of  a  yawning  fissure 
in  the  slaty  coast.  A  light  breeze  blew 
from  the  land,  shepherding  puffs  of  white 
cloud  in  the  blue  meadows  overhead,  the 
opal  sea  was  streaked  with  purplish  shadows, 
and  dotted  here  and  there  with  tawny  sails. 
Nets  lay  drying  on  the  thymy  slopes,  grass- 
hoppers were  whirring,  and  big  brown  bees 
blundering  about  the  heath-bells,  and  the 
blue  buttons  of  the  corn-flowers.  A  very 
old  white  horse  was  rolling  luxuriously  on 
the  extreme  edge  of  the  cliff,  careless  of  the 
fact  that  an  unguarded  flourish  of  the  four 
worn  hoofs  brandished  in  the  sun  might 
send  him  toppling  over  into  the  greedy 
jaws  of  the  congers  and  the  big  scuttling 
crabs  waiting  down  in  the  rock-caves  fathoms 
below. 

Nobody  spoke  much,  the  spell  of  the  beauty 
of  the  scene  was  upon  them,  the  wild  free- 
dom and  freshness,  the  salt  sweetness  of  the 
breeze  they  drank  in  greedily,  and  sighed 
when  it  was  time  to  descend  the  slippery 
hillside  again. 

A  faint  "  holloa "  brought  them  to  a 
standstill.  Upon  the  opposite  side  of  the 
harbour,  where  the  lime-washed  coast-guard 

64 


"TO    EACH    YOUNG    WOMAN    HER   OCCUPATION    WAS   ASSIGNED."      p.    55- 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

hut  was  perched  upon  a  jutting  point  of  the 
cliff,  a  tiny  human  figure  bobbed  and  capered. 
It  waved  a  bush  about  its  head  and  shouted, 
and  answering  shouts  came  from  the  quays, 
deserted  a  few  moments  ago,  now  alive 
with  tawny-faced,  blue-guernseyed  men  ard 
active  urchins.  The  very  gulls,  no  longer 
floating  like  languid  white  sea-lilies  on  the 
oily  green  water  in  the  shadows  of  the 
quays,  shared  the  general  excitement,  and 
swooped  to  and  fro  overhead,  mewing  shrilly 
and  expectantly. 

"  An  accident,"  hazarded  Lady  Jane.  She 
lost  her  balance  as  she  spoke,  and  sliding 
with  startling  rapidity  over  the  edge  of  a 
steep  slope  of  sunburnt  turf,  disappeared 
from  view.  The  others,  following  more 
leisurely,  found  her  sitting  in  a  grassy  hollow, 
with  the  Llwddllm  dignity  unshaken,  and 
the  Llwddllm  ankles  as  conjectural  as 
ever. 

"  No,  but  there  might  have  been,"  said 
Rosevear,  "  if  you  had  not  stopped  in  time. 
See  !  "  she  pointed  as  the  blue- topped  masts 
of  a  procession  of  fishing  boats  moved  slowly 
into  sight  beyond  the  weather-stained  grey 
stones  of  the  outermost  quay,^and  the  red 

65  5 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

sails  slowly  spread  their  wings  to  the  music 
of  the  groaning  tackle-blocks,  "  There  will 
be  a  race — such  a  race — in  another  moment. 
The  man  with  the  bush — the  '  huer '  they 
call  him — has  sighted  a  school  of  pilchards, 
and  the  drift  boats  are  going  out  in  pursuit. 
And,  by  the  way,  the  smartest  and  foremost 
of  them  all  belongs  to  our  Joan's  sweetheart, 
Huey  Lenine.  There  he  is,  half  way  up 
the  mast,  lashing  the  gaff-top-sail — it  is 
lucky  the  wind  is  off  shore.  Good  luck  to 
you,  Handsome  Huey  ! — that  is  the  name 
he  goes  by  in  the  village.  Wave  your  hand- 
kerchief, Clara  child,  mine  has  blown  over 
the  cliff." 

"  I  would  rather  not.  I  have  hardly 
spoken  to  Mr.  Lenine,"  faltered  Clara,  "  and 
he — he  might  think  it  strange." 

They  were  standing  a  little  apart  from  the 
others,  watching  the  dipping  flight  of  the 
red-brown  sails.  Rosevear  laughed  lightly. 

"  He  won't  be  shocked  at  your  immodesty, 
I  promise  you.  What  does  a  poor  fisher- 
boy  know  of  the  convenances  of  good  society  ? 
Though  he  does  look  and  move  like  a — like 
a  Spanish  hidalgo  disguised  in  a  shaggy 
blue  guernsey  and  sea-boots,  when  he  is 

66 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

lounging  among  the  boats  or  making  love 
to  Joan  in  the  back  kitchen.  Don't  you 
agree  with  me  ?  " 

But  Clara  answered  never  a  word. 


67  5* 


IX 

THE  days  of  September  moved  on  apace, 
in  russet  and  flame-tinted  procession.  The 
old  order  of  things  at  Killigarth  was  gradually 
giving  place  to  the  new,  under  the  active 
superintendence  of  Lady  Jane  and  her 
associates.  The  greenhouse,  a  stately  erec- 
tion, was  nearly  completed. 

The  materials  had  been  carted  over  from 
Pencarrick,  and  the  builder,  a  local  genius 
who  united  in  one  person  the  combined  trades 
of  mason,  carpenter,  plumber,  and  black- 
smith, entered  with  guileless  enthusiasm  into 
the  ideas  of  his  employers.  The  fowl-houses 
at  the  paddock-end  were  represented  as  yet 
by  a  turfless  desolate  expanse  of  trodden 
ground,  a  few  posts,  some  corrugated  zinc 
roofing,  and  a  quantity  of  wire  netting  ;  but 
time  would  bring  about  the  desired  result 
in  all  its  completeness,  and  practical  utility, 
there  was  good  reason  to  hope. 

A  couple  of  hardy  labourers  had  been 
68 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

employed  to  dig  over  every  foot  of  garden- 
ground.  Gooseberry,  currant  and  raspberry 
bushes  were  carefully  transplanted  to  suit- 
able quarters,  and  Rosevear  Trelawney  and 
Fanny  Dormer,  armed  with  pegs  and  strings ; 
compasses  and  other  necessary  parapher- 
nalia, went  about  from  morning  till  night  in 
a  high  fever  of  ingenuity,  planning  borders 
and  shaping  beds. 

One  book  was  in  great  request  among  the 
community  at  this  time.  It  travelled  about 
under  their  arms,  it  was  propped  up  beside 
their  plates  at  their  informal  meals.  Three 
copies  had  already  succumbed  to  active 
service,  the  remaining  three  were  much  the 
worse  for  wear  and  weather.  The  volume 
was  entitled  :  "  Hints  on  Practical  Gardening, 
with  Remarks  on  Bee  and  Poultry  Keeping, 
and  some  Advice  Relative  to  the  keeping 
of  Domestic  Animals.  By  Maria  Mulcher." 

And  little  by  little  Maria  Mulcher  had 
obtained  complete  ascendency  over  the  minds 
of  those  readers  who  continually  perused 
her.  She  became  an  invisible  but  potential 
individuality,  commonly  referred  to  by  her 
baptismal  name.  She  ruled  by  her  counsels 
every  action  of  the  household,  and  scraps 

69 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

of  he.r  wisdom  and  fragments  of  her  aphorisms 
were  continually  being  quoted  and  re-quoted, 
bandied  and  discussed  by  the  Female  Fruit 
and  Flower  Gardeners. 

"  Maria  says  this,"  "  Maria  says  that," 
or  "  What  does  Maria  think  ?  "  would  be  the 
cry,  and  her  dilapidated  covers  would  be 
smacked  open,  and  her  grimy  pages  eagerly 
dived  into,  and  the  diver  would  reappear 
with  some  such  priceless  pearl  of  counsel  as 
the  following  : 

"  SEED  SOWING. — Having  obtained  good 
seeds,  we  should  be  careful  how  we  sow  them. 
There  is  an  old  maxim,  which  in  my 
youth " 

"  She  must  be  a  hundred  years  old  at 
least,"  Rosevear  would  cry,  "  if  one  may 
judge  from  the  amount  of  saplings  she  has 
planted,  and  which  afterwards,  according 
to  her,  '  have  developed  into  stately  trees.' 
Take  the  instance  of  the  Canary  Fig,  which 
takes  thirty  years  to  attain  to  a  medium 
size  in  this  country.  Well,  by  her  own 
showing,  she  has  brought  up  exactly  one 
dozen  of  Canary  Figs.  It  hardly  seems 
natural !  " 

Clara  Currey  would  read  on  very  fast. 
70 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  An  old  maxim  which  says,  '  Sow  thick 
and  thin  quick.'  This  should  ever  be  on 
the  lips  of  the  earnest  gardener." 

"  Then,"  Rosevear  would  break  out  again, 
"  a  good  many  earnest  gardeners  must  die 
annually  of  lockjaw.  Try  to  repeat  that 
aphorism  quickly,  and  you  will  find  that  it 
is  almost  impossible.  Maria  may  be  an 
authority  on  gardening,  but  she  is  sometimes 
a  little  unreasonable." 

Clara  would  pursue  : 

"  ARTIFICIAL  MANURE. — The  question — 
1  What  is  manure  ? '  may  be  met  by  the 
further  interrogation — '  What  is  not 
manure  ?  ' 

Rosevear  would  shut  Maria  up  and  bang 
her  upon  the  table. 

"  I  could  mention  dozens  of  things  that 
aren't.  But  she  only  asks  these  questions 
out  of  aggravation." 

Lady  Jane  would  take  up  the  tale  : 

"  RAISING  VEGETABLES. — If  a  vegetable 
garden  be  properly  laid  out,  well  cultivated 
and  cropped,  it  will  be  productive  of 
interest  " — "  Six  per  cent.,  at  least,"  Fanny 
would  cry.  Lady  Jane  would  rebuke  her 
with  a  look,  and  continue : 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  EDGINGS. — A  very  effective  edging  may 
be  obtained  by  planting  a  row  of  parsley 
outside  next  the  path,  and  three  rows  of 
beet  next,  and  two  of  Tripoli  onions,  and — 

"  Stop,  stop  !  "  Rosevear  would  cry  wildly. 
"  Fanny,  my  head  is  going  round !  How 
many  rows  of  parsley  did  we  set  this  morn- 
ing ?  Maria  is  not  one  to  spare  labour, 
and  ten  to  one,  if  we  have  exceeded  by 
one  row,  we  shall  have  to  begin  all  over 
again  !  " 

"  BEDS," — Lady  Jane  would  resume.  "  A 
walk  among  beds  of  carrots,  onions,  parsnips, 
beet,  cauliflower,  cabbage,  asparagus,  celery, 
etc.,  intersected  with  rows  of  peas,  all  full 
of  healthful  vigour,  is  calculated  to  give 
pleasure  to  every  rightly  constituted  mind." 

"  I  should  think  so.  Next  year — ah  !  " 
with  a  long-drawn  sigh  of  anticipation. 

"  SOMETHING  ABOUT  TOOLS. — Carlyle,  in 
his  grimly-humorous  way,  says  :  '  Man  is  a 
tool-using  animal ;  without  tools  he  is 
nothing,  with  tools  he  is  all.'  The  Early 
Inhabitants  of  this  globe  had  their  flint  ball, 
with  a  thong  to  it,  such  as  no  brute  has, 
or  can  have.  In  gardening,  it  is  impossible 
to  do  a§  much  work  with  a  bad  tool  as  a  good 

72 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

one.     There  are  many  noticeable  points  about 
a  rake,  for  instance." 

"  Maria  will  have  her  little  joke,"  Rose- 
vear  would  comment.  "  She  must  be  a 
chirpy  sort  of  old  lady.  Cannot  you  picture 
her,  girls  ?  I  can,  short  and  stumpy,  with  a 
red,  weather-beaten  smiling  old  face  under 
a  huge  gardening  hat,  trimmed  with  rusty 
velvet,  a  prehistoric  ulster,  and  goloshes — 
or  pattens.  Do  you  not  think  pattens 
would  be  more  in  Maria's  line  ?  Come,  it 
is  time  we  gave  her  a  rest,  the  old  dear. 
Shut  her  up,  and  put  her  by,  and  we  will  go 
for  a  walk." 


73 


X 

ROSEVEAR  pioneered  these  excursions,  it  is 
needless  to  say,  and  tough  scrambles  over 
the  cliffs,  and  sturdy  tramps  along  the 
narrow,  deep-cut  Cornish  lanes  had  gone 
far  towards  establishing  in  each  member 
of  the  community  that  healthiness  of  phy- 
sical constitution,  and  serene  indifference  to 
weather,  which  should  be  characteristic  of 
the  hardy  tiller  of  the  soil.  Lady  Jane  in 
especial,  had  developed  into  a  most  springy- 
paced  and  untiring  pedestrian. 

"  If  poor  papa  were  to  meet  me  now,  he 
would  be  dreadfully  shocked,"  she  used  to  say. 
"At  Llwddllm,  if  any  of  us  hinted  at  using 
our  legs  like  other  people,  he  would  wave 
his  hand,  and  tell  us  that  there  were  plenty 
of  carriages  at  our  disposal.  And  so  there 
are,  I  suppose,  but  the  youngest  vehicle 
available  is  a  family  coach  of  the  pre- Vic- 
torian era,  and  the  horses — we  have  only  got 
two — are  so  old  and  infirm  that  the  weekly 

74 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

stagger  to  church  and  back  again  is  as  much 
as  they  can  manage.  To  whom  does  this 
charming  old  place  belong  ?  I  have  a  great 
mind  to  stop  and  ask  the  lodge-keeper  !  " 

Ancient  gates  of  wrought  iron  work,  on 
either  side  of  which  heraldic  monsters  in 
lichen-spotted  grey  stone  reared  and  capered, 
gave  upon  an  avenue  of  noble  Spanish 
chestnuts,  standing  knee-deep  in  a  rich 
undergrowth  of  the  royal  male  fern.  The 
machicolated  crown  of  a  grand  old  house, 
built  like  the  lodge-pillars  of  worn  grey 
granite,  peeped  out  of  a  wooded  hollow  at 
the  end  of  the  perspective.  The  pheasants 
whirred  up  amongst  the  fern,  as  the  plump 
brown  rabbits  scattered  across  their  runs, 
balmy  whiffs  of  sweetbriar  gladdened  the 
nostrils  of  the  Peris  who  lingered  outside 
this  Paradise.  Rosevear  Trelawney  spoke 
after  a  pause. 

"  The  person  who  at  present  owns  this 
place  is  a  man  called  Vosper.  He  is,  pro- 
perly speaking,  a  Nobody,  born  of  a  long 
line  of  Nobodies,  I  believe.  But  the  place 
itself  is  old " — she  drew  a  long  breath — 
"  and  its  name  is  Trelawney.  It  was  my 
father's  rightful  inheritance — it  should  be 

75 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

mine  by  that  right  to-day  " — she  laughed 
bitterly — "  yet,  here  I  stand  taking  off  a 
proof  impression  of  the  family  gate  upon 
the  family  features,  and  Lady  Jane  has 
just  asked  me  to  whom  the  place  belongs." 

The  others  looked  at  the  disinherited 
princess  sympathetically. 

"  Don't  look  as  if  you  expected  to  hear  a 
romantic  story,  Marjory  Dormer,"  said  Rose- 
vear,  with  another  laugh.  "  The  history  is 
commonplace  enough.  My  father  was  an 
only  son,  and  the  estate  was  not  entailed. 
And  when  my  grandfather  wanted  to  make 
a  match  between  Dad  and  a  country  young 
lady  who  had  great  possessions,  but  in- 
finitesimal attractions  (Dad  always  said  she 
had  a  hump),  it  came  out  that  the  poor 
dear  had  chosen  for  himself — that  he  was 
already  married — and  that  I,  who  ought  to 
have  been  a  boy,  was  about  to  be  launched 
upon  existence.  And  so  it  came  about  that 
grandfather  tore  up  one  will,  sent  for  the 
lawyer  to  make  another,  and  between  them 
both,  Dad  was  treated  like  the  infidel 
Daddy  Longlegs  in  the  nursery  rhyme. 
And  he  was  never  asked  to  walk  upstairs 
again,  50  he  bought  Killigaith  out  of  the 

76 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

few  hundreds  he  had  of  his  own,  and  settled 
down  with  mother.  She  was  very  beauti- 
ful, and  only  a  poor  clergyman's  daughter, 
and  she  fretted  herself  to  death  over  the 
change  in  Dad's  prospects.  Then  Dad  died 
after  having  ruined  himself  in  a  mining 
speculation,  and  grandfather  died  leaving 
everything  he  possessed  to  different  charities, 
as  uncharitable  people  always  do,  and  the 
old  place  fell  into  the  hands  of  a  Usurper. 
And  that's  all." 

There  was  a  rustling  amongst  the  fern.  A 
red  setter  leapt  out  into  the  avenue,  and  in 
another  moment  a  young  man  in  a  shabby 
velveteen  shooting  suit,  with  a  well-filled 
game  bag  hanging  at  his  back,  emerged  into 
view. 

His  glance  fell  upon  the  group  assembled 
outside  the  gate.  He  shifted  his  gun  into 
the  hollow  of  his  arm  and  raised  his  battered 
felt  hat  as  he  addressed  the  ladies. 

"  I — I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  blushed  a 
little  as  his  frank  glance  encountered  the 
repellent  coldness  of  Rosevear's  regard. 
"  Did  you — did  you  wish  to  see  the  place  ? 
It  is  not  a  show  day,  but  you  would  be 

welcome  if  you  cared ?  " 

77 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

'  We  have  no  wish  to  trespass  upon  your 
courtesy,"  Rosevear  answered  haughtily. 
"  Thank  you,  and — good-morning  !  " 

The  snubbed  young  man  lifted  his  shabby 
hat  again,  whistled  to  his  dog,  and  retreated. 
The  Female  Fruit  and  Flower  Gardeners 
trooped  silently  upon  their  way. 

"  I  wonder  who ?  "  Lady  Jane  was 

the  first  to  speak. 

"  Didn't  you  guess  ?  "  returned  Octavia 
Wall  in  an  undertone.  "  That  was  The 
Usurper !  " 


XI 

THE  spirits  of  the  exiled  princess  partially 
revived,  once  Trelawney,  with  its  shadowy 
avenues,  deep  ferny  glades,  and  lichened 
stone  escutcheons,  had  been  left  behind. 
The  influences  of  the  brisk  exercise  and 
cheery  sunshine  were  not  to  be  resisted. 
Tirelessly  she  led  the  little  band  up  and 
down  steep,  high-banked  lanes,  between 
hedges  fringed  with  fern  and  foxgloves, 
ragged  robin  and  white  meadowsweet,  and 
garlanded  with  honeysuckle  and  purple 
vetches,  or  along  the  poppy-bordered  skirt- 
ing-paths of  fields  of  ripening  wheat.  The 
buoyant  air  quickened  their  pulses,  the 
sun  browned  the  complexions  once  so  care- 
fully guarded — Marjory  Dormer  had  been 
the  last  to  abandon  that  badge  of  female 
civilisation — a  white  veil.  The  larks  were 
singing  one  against  the  other,  mere  dots  of 
black  upon  the  burning  blue,  the  plump 
partridges  squatting  in  the  furrows  cocked 

79 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

bright  eyes  upon  them  as  they  went  by, 
knowing  that  nothing  serious  was  to  be 
apprehended  from  petticoated  creatures  who 
carried  sunshades,  and  were  not  attended 
by  keepers  and  dogs. 

It  was  all  very  peaceful,  very  bright  and 
pleasant,  but  in  every  bosom — save  that  of 
Miss  Trelawney,  which  harboured  a  bugbear 
even  more  objectionable,  in  the  hated  image 
of  The  Usurper — lurked  the  haunting  fear 
of  cattle.  Oxen  had  looked  at  them  over 
gates  more  than  once  in  the  course  of  the 
day's  ramble,  red-brown,  long-horned  crea- 
tures, whose  pink-dappled  nostrils  snorted 
surprise,  and  whose  great  black  eyes  rolled 
inquiringly  in  their  red  orbits  as  the  little 
procession  of  London-hatted  wayfarers  went 
by.  The  thought  of  encountering  one  of 
these  creatures — irate,  clumsily  active,  thirst- 
ing for  blood — perhaps,  in  a  narrow  lane, 
or  a  wide  pasture,  such  as  the  one  they  were 
now  traversing,  was  a  chilling  one.  Lady 
Jane,  mindful  of  the  aesthetic  prejudices  of 
the  creature  she  dreaded  to  encounter,  had 
closed  her  sunshade,  the  lining  of  which  was 
red,  and  carried  it  unobtrusively  close  to 
her  side.  Marjory  Dormer  had  secretly 

80 


f 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

despoiled  her  hat  of  a  feather  which  boasted 
the  same  objectionable  hue,  and  thrown  it 
away.  What  availed  these  sacrifices  for  the 
safety  of  the  community,  though,  when 
Miss  Trelawney,  having  gathered  a  sheaf 
of  the  biggest  and  brightest  poppies  the 
wayside  might  boast,  bound  it  upon  the 
end  of  the  walking-staff  which  invariably 
accompanied  her  in  her  peregrinations,  with 
a  yellow  neck-ribbon,  and  mounted  it 
shoulder-high  ?  The  effect — from  unpre- 
judiced beholders'  point  of  view — was  that 
of  an  early  Roman  military  standard,  from 
the  other,  that  of  the  wrecker's  beacon, 
inviting  destruction  in  its  direst  form.  No- 
body remonstrated  with  Rosevear,  though. 
One  of  her  unusual  fits  of  abstraction  had 
fallen  upon  her,  and  she  led  the  van  in 
silence.  The  field  was  a  large  one,  crossed 
by  a  narrow  footpath  ;  the  stile  they  were 
making  for  seemed  a  long  way  off,  while 
the  stile  they  had  left  behind  appeared  even 
more  distant.  A  lovely  view  lay  unrolled 
before  them,  of  high  hills,  golden  with  gorse, 
and  red  with  heather,  and  curving  bays 
outlined  against  the  silvery  blueness  of  the 
sea. 

81  6 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

In  the  foreground,  from  a  crowded  hollow 
rose  a  ruined  tower  draped  with  ivy.  Alto- 
gether a  heavenly  view,  but  how  much  more 
to  be  appreciated  from  the  other  side  of 
that  far-off  stile  ! 

This  thought  was  rippling  the  otherwise 
placid  surface  of  Lady  Jane's  mind,  when 
the  heavy  thudding  gallop  she  had  mentally 
heard  and  trembled  at  so  often,  smote  on  her 
actual  ear. 

"  Cows  !  " 

She  had  known  it  even  before  that  hissing 
whisper  chilled  her  to  the  marrow.  She 
looked  back.  Then  she  screamed,  and 
clutched  Marjory.  It  was  Pelion  upon  Ossa 
with  a  vengeance.  Rosevear  Trelawney 
looked  round,  saw  the  danger  that  menaced, 
and  stopped  short. 

"  Go  on,  go  on.  Walk  as  quickly  as  you 
can  to  the  stile.  Hurry,  but  don't  run,"  she 
said.  She  tore  the  flaming  bundle  of  poppies 
from  her  stick  and  threw  them  from  her  as 
she  spoke.  Lady  Jane,  Miss  Wall,  Clara, 
Fanny,  and  Marjory  were  already  out  of 
hearing,  straining  every  nerve,  with  dry  lips, 
and  thumping  hearts,  to  reach  that  distant 
stile. 

82 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

The  bull — for  it  was  a  bull — lumbered 
nearer.  Rosevear  began  to  walk  away,  back- 
wards, keeping  her  eye — she  had,  like  all 
of  us,  read  a  good  deal  about  the  power  of 
the  human  eye  in  subduing  the  emotions  of 
the  brute  creation — sternly  fixed  upon  the 
animal.  He  was  a  shaggy,  thick-set  animal, 
his  hide  oddly  dappled  with  blotches  of  red, 
white,  and  black,  and  he  held  his  blunt  head, 
armed  with  a  pair  of  sharp  young  horns, 
down,  and  made  grunting,  unpleasant  noises 
as  he  came  along.  His  red  eyes  were  full  of 
temper,  and  as  he  stopped  to  sniff  at  Rose- 
vear's  abandoned  bunch  of  poppies,  he  bel- 
lowed and  the  hoarse  sound  set  the  girl's 
heart  bumping  painfully. 


83  6* 


XII 

'  DOESN'T^  he  look  mad?"   said^a  gasping 
little  voice  behind  her. 

Rosevear,   still   maintaining   her   courtier- 
like  method  of  retreat,  glanced  round. 

'  You  should  not  have  come  back,"  she 
said,  with  dry  lips.  "  See,  the  others  have 
reached  the  stile.  Hurry  after  them,  Clara. 
I  can't  tell  how  soon  this  beast " — her  voice 
broke — "  may  charge  and " 

"  I  won't  leave  you,"  said  little  Clara, 
undauntedly,  but  gaspingly.  "  I  ran  away 
with  the  others  at  first ;  and  then,  when  I 
looked  back,  and  I  saw  you,  all  alone,  like  a 
Christian  m — martyr  in  the  arena,  my  blood 
b — boiled,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  to  die 
with  you,  if  there  was  no  other  way  of 
g — getting  out  of  it." 

The  bull  bellowed  again.  He  broke  into 
a  blundering  gallop.  Clara  screamed. 

"  Run     for     the     stile,    ladies,"    said,    a 
84 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

masculine  voice  imperatively.  "  Quick,  give 
me  that  stick." 

Rosevear's  stick  was  snatched  from  her. 
A  young  man  in  a  shabby  velveteen  shooting 
suit  stepped  swiftly  between  the  girls  and 
their  bovine  adversary.  In  another  moment 
he  ran  towards  the  bull,  shouting.  The  bull 
charged. 

"  He  will  be  killed— oh,  he  will  be  killed  !  " 
sobbed  Clara. 

But  no,  he  was  not  even  hurt.  With  the 
coolness  of  a  matador  he  had  stepped  aside, 
just  at  the  right  moment,  and  dealt  the  bull 
a  heavy  blow  upon  the  nose.  The  astonished 
beast  shook  his  head,  wheeled,  and  charged 
again.  And  then ! 

"  Well  done  !  Oh,  well  done  !  "  cried  Rose- 
vear.  For  with  marvellous  dexterity  the 
young  man  had  hooked  the  strong  crook  of 
the  vine  stick  into  the  iron  ring  that  pierced 
the  nostrils  of  the  bull.  Now  he  twisted 
it  viciously,  and  the  angry  creature  bellowed 
again,  and  snorted  blood  and  foam.  In 
another  moment,  utterly  cowed,  it  was  in 
full  retreat,  and  the  young  man  in  velveteen 
returned  to  the  ladies. 

"  He  will  not  come  back  again ;  he  has 
85 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

had  quite  enough  for  one  day.  Pray  allow 
me  to  see  you  to  the  stile.  You  are  white — 
you  are  trembling.  If  you  would  take  my 
arm?" 

"  We  are  quite  able  to  take  care  of  our- 
selves, thank  you,"  said  Rosevear  coldly. 
Then  she  repented  of  the  ungenerous  speech. 
"  I  have  not  said  how  grateful  we  are  for 
your — your  bravery  ;  but ' 

"  The  bravery  was  on  your  side,"  said  the 
young  fellow,  eagerly.  "  I — I  never  saw 
anything  so  plucky.  And  the  others  ran 
away  and  left  you — all  but  this  young 
lady  !  " 

'  They  considered  it  expedient  that  one 
should  be  tossed  rather  than  seven,  I  sup- 
pose," returned  Rosevear,  lightly.  "  And, 
indeed,  it  would  have  been  very  foolish  of 
them  to  have  stopped.  Here  we  are  at  the 
stile.  We  shall  know  better  next  time  than 
to  cross  it." 

"  Tregeagle — the  farm-men  christened  him 
Tregeagle  because  he  is  such  a  demon," 
said  the  young  man,  "  will  not  be  at  large 
after  to-day.  He  will  be  safely  picketed  in 
his  own  paddock.  I  am  afraid  he  has  spoilt 
your  stick  " — he  handed  it  doubtfully  back 

86 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

to  Miss  Trelawney — "  but  he  has  paid  for 
his  frolic,  at  any  rate." 

"  I  hope  he  is  not  much  hurt,  poor  beast !  ' 
broke  in  the  magnanimous  Clara. 

"  I  think  not.  I  hope  not,"  said  the  young 
man  in  velveteens.  He  blushed  quite  in- 
genuously ;  then  he  added,  in  a  still,  small 
voice  :  "I  have  reason  to  be  obliged  to  Treg- 
eagle  ;  he  did  me  a  very  good  turn  to-day 
— one  that  I  shall  not  forget  in  a  hurry." 

He  ended  the  sentence  abruptly ;  he 
saluted  Miss  Trelawney  and  her  companion, 
and  turned  away.  Then — he  jumped  the 
hedge  like  a  deer,  and  was  gone. 

"  Why  ?  "  exclaimed  Clara,  stricken  by  a 
tardy  intuition.  "It  is  the  very  man  who 
spoke  to  you  this  morning — the  owner  of 
Trelawney  !  " 

It  was,  in  fact,  The  Usurper  who  had 
spoiled  Mr.  Tregeagle's  sinister  little  game 
at  play.  And  Rosevear  had  known  it  from 
the  very  beginning. 


XIII 

THE  girls  crossed  the  stile  and  entered  the 
lane.  A  sound  of  heavy  galloping  footsteps 
rapidly  drawing  near  brought  them  both 
to  a  halt.  In  another  moment  two  farm 
labourers  appeared,  running.  One  of  them 
carried  a  pitchfork,  the  other  a  billet  of 
wood. 

Miss  Trelawney  called  to  them  as  they 
went  by.  Both  stopped,  fingering  their 
dusty  forelocks. 

"  You  have  been  sent  by  five  ladies  to 
look  after  two  other  ladies,  who,  they  told 
you,  were  in  this  field,  being  gored  by  Squire 
Vosper's  bull." 

"  Please  'm,  us  wer." 

"  We  are  the  young  ladies.  As  you  see, 
Tregeagle  has  let  us  off  easily.  I  am  sorry 
you  have  been  taken  from  your  work. 
Thank  you  for  coming  ;  and  as  you  have  had 
a  hot  run,  perhaps  some  cider  would  not 

81 


"ONE   OF   THEM    CARRIED   A    PITCHFORK,    THE   OTHER    A    BII.l.ET 
OF    WOOD."      />.  88. 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

come  amiss  to  you  ? "  Rosevear  dropped 
a  shilling  into  each  horny  hand. 

"  No  'm,  please  'm,  thankee  'm !  Th' 
other  ladies,  'em  be  quite  nigh  by  ;  sittin' 
on  th'  bank  by  th'  roadside  an'  cryin'  terble, 
one  or  tew.  Wan'  'em,  Gerge  ?  " 

"  Ay,  was  'em,"  assented  Gerge. 

'*  We  will  go  and  dry  their  tears."  Rose- 
vear caught  Clara  Currey  by  the  hand. 
"  Run,  little  one.  Kiss  me  first,  though. 
You  were  a  sweet,  brave  little  soul  to  come 
back  to  me,  and  I  shall  never  forget  it — 
never !  See,  there  are  the  Niobides.  A 
pathetic  group. 

"  '  By  many  a  good  girl  wept,  Quintilia  dies.' 

"  Only,  as  it  happens,  Quintilia  has  turned 
up  alive  and  kicking.  Ah !  they  see  us. 
It  is  fortunate  that  sudden  joy  never  kills. 
Here  we  are  you  see,  Lady  Jane." 

There  was  a  stampede  of  surprise  among 
the  mourners.  Question  followed  question 
with  breathless  rapidity.  Lady  Jane  and 
the  others  had  not  acted  heroically  in  yield- 
ing to  the  primal  instinct  of  self-preserva- 
tion, but  their  welcome  of  the  two  girls 
was  a  sincerely  hearty  one.  Octavia  was 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

absent,  having  discovered  and  despatched 
the  two  labourers  to  the  field  of  action. 
She  had  proceeded  to  a  neighbouring  farm- 
house in  search  of  bandages,  restoratives, 
and  a  conveyance  for  the  transport  of  the 
wounded  home. 

"  I  shall  never  forgive  myself,"  she  said, 
when  she  returned,  "  Gerge  "  and  his  com- 
panion, encountered  on  the  way,  having 
informed  her  of  the  safety  of  the  objects  of 
her  solicitude.  "  Don't  soften  it  down, 
Rosevear.  We  behaved  like  cowardly  idiots 
in  running  away,  and  I  blush  for  us,  especially 
for  myself,  who  cherish  the  grand  theory  of 
the  Equality  of  the  Woman.  Woman  is 
Titanesque,  where  Man  is  a  mere  pigmy. 
Woman  advances,  step  by  step,  along  the 
road  of  centuries  towards  a  glorious  apo- 
theosis. My  dears,  nothing  in  heaven  or  on 
earth,  or  out  of — elsewhere,  will  stop  her 
progress  along  that  road,  unless  " — Octavia 
shook  her  head — "  unless  she  meets  a  bull 
upon  "if,  or  a  blackbeetle." 

'  These  are  the  weak  joints  in  her  other- 
wise impregnable  harness.  But  this  is  a 
curious  place.  That  picturesque  group  of 
trees — four  of  them,  and  each  of  a  different 

90 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

kind — overshadowing    what    appears    to     be 
an  antique  well " 

'  A  well  there  is  in  the  West  Countrie, 

And  a  clearer  one  never  was  seen  ; 
There  is  not  a  wife  in  the  West  Countrie 
But  has  heard  of  the  Well  of  St.  Keyne  ! 

An  oak  and  an  elm  tree  stand  beside, 
And  behind  doth  an  ash-tree  grow, 

And  a  willow  from  the  bank  above 
Droops  in  the  water  below/  " 

sang  Rosevear. 

"  Though  the  willow  has  disappeared  with 
time,  I  suppose,  without  destroying  the 
magic  properties  of  the  waters,  '  The  sweet- 
ness of  domestic  sovereignty/  said  St.  Keyne, 
'  shall  belong  to  that  one  of  a  married  couple 
who  shall  first  drink  thereof/  ' 

"  Then  this  is  really  St.  Keyne's  Well  ?  " 
said  Fanny  Dormer,  eagerly. 

"  Assuredly/' 

They  approached  the  ruined  well,  and 
examined  it  in  silence.  Its  front  was  of 
pointed  form,  with  a  rude  entrance  some 
four  feet  high.  It  was  spanned  above  by 
a  single  flat  stone,  which  led  into  a  grotto, 
whose  arched  roof  was  draped  with  lovely 
fronds^of  hart's- tongue  fern,  and  curtains  of 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

velvety-green  moss.  The  granite  basin  was 
brimmed  with  clear  water,  which  gurgled 
away  through  some  subterranean  outlet  with 
a  pleasant  sound. 

"  The  water  is  only  supposed  to  produce 
an  effect  upon  married  drinkers,  I  sup- 
pose ?  "  hazarded  Fanny. 

"  Tradition  sayeth  not.  Come,  Octavia, 
pledge  me  a  bumper  to  the  supremacy 
of  Woman,  and  the — what  is  it  ?  The 
speedy  downfall  of  the  Era  of  Brute  Force. 
I  intended  this  as  a  surprise,  and  have  got 
a  travelling  cup  in  my  pocket." 

"  Since  we  have  decided  that  Man  is  to 
play  no  part  in  our  present  drama  of  in- 
dividual energy  and  collative  enterprise," 
Octavia  objected — "  it  seems  like  an  infringe- 
ment of  the  Rules " 

"  Nonsense,"  cried  Fanny.  "  We  know 
what  we  are,  but  we  know  not  what  we  may 
be.  Let  us  make  sure,  at  least,  that  if  ever 
any  of  us  fall  victims  to  the  yoke  of  mar- 
riage," she  laughed,  "  we  shall  not,  at  least, 
be  ground  under  the  Iron  Hoof  of  the  Op- 
pressor, as  are  so  many  of  our  hopeless 
sisters."  The  daring  girl  quoted  from  one 
of  Octavia's  own  speeches :  "  Let  us  make 

92 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

sure  that  the  grinding  is  going  to  be  on  the 
right  side.  Come  !  "  She  took  the  travel- 
ling cup  from  Rosevear,  and  filled  it  to  the 
brim,  and  held  it  to  the  lips  of  Lady  Jane. 
"  Liberty — the  Latch-key — and  the  Last 
Word  in  all  squabbles  !  Hurrah  !  " 

Lady  Jane  obeyed,  and  drank.  And 
though  the  travelling  cup  was  one  of  those 
wonderful  patent  collapsible  affairs  which 
invariably  collapse  at  the  wrong  moment, 
and  empty  their  contents  into  the  drinker's 
sleeve — it  ended  in  everybody's  having  a 
sip  of  the  wonderful  water  of  St.  Keyne's 
Well. 


93 


XIV 

IT  was  astonishing  how  many  of  the  orchard- 
trees  proved,  upon  judicial  examination,  to 
be  past  work.  Octavia  went  about  with  a 
pruning  hook,  an  instrument  which  her 
past  surgical  experience  made  her  very  handy 
at  using,  and  chopped  away  dead  wood 
from  likely  cases,  and  condemned  hopeless 
ones  with  a  cross-slash  on  the  bark,  and 
was  very  busy  indeed.  The  axes  of  the  hired 
labourers  were  continually  employed,  and 
the  wood-house  was  literally  bursting  with 
fuel. 

But  one  afternoon,  when  Miss  Wall  failed 
to  respond  to  the  summons  of  the  lunch- 
bell,  little  Clara  Currey,  who  had  run  out  to 
call  her,  found  her  sitting  on  a  felled  trunk, 
very  pale. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  You  haven't  cut 
yourself  ?  "  inquired  Clara,  anxiously.  Then 
she  came  nearer,  and  turned  very  pale- 

94 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  You  are  hurt — you  are  bleeding  dreadfully," 
she  cried.     "  What — oh,  what — can  I  do  ?  " 

"First  of  all,  don't  faint,"  said  Octavia. 
"  Next,  lend  me  your  handkerchief.  Help 
me  to  tie  it  tight  above  the  cut,  and  get  me 
a  stick  ;  I  must  try  and  improvise  a  tourni- 
quet, and  then  you  can  help  me  back  to  the 
house." 

She  had  chopped  her  arm  very  severely 
with  her  own  billhook.  In  spite  of  all  their 
united  endeavours  the  bleeding  would  not 
stop.  Octavia  was  of  opinion  that  an  artery 
had  been  severed. 

"  If  the  accident  had  only  happened  to 
somebody  else,"  she  said,  "  I  should  have 
been  able  to  do  all  that  was  necessary.  As 
it  is  I  am  handicapped."  Then,  with  great 
resolution,  she  managed  to  stagger  back  to 
the  house,  leaning  on  Clara. 

The  entry  was  an  effective  one. 

"  When  the  blood  bolter' d  Banquo  smiled 
upon  them,"  and  feebly  demanded  brandy, 
cobwebs,  and  court-plaster,  the  consterna- 
tion of  the  Limited  Liability  Company  of 
F.F.  and  F.G/s  was  complete.  Many  in- 
valuable suggestions  were  made,  many  in- 
fallible recipes  for  stopping  the  effusion  were 

95 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

put  in  practice,  but  none  were  of  any  avail. 
The  situation  began  to  look  serious. 

"  And  there  is  not  such  a  thing  as  a  doctor 
nearer  than  five  miles  away  !  "  gasped  Fanny 
Dormer. 

"  We  must  send."  Rosevear  looked  up 
from  her  task.  With  her  thumbs  firmly 
pressed  upon  the  edges  of  the  wound,  she 
was  holding  it  firmly  together.  "  Call  Aunt 
Hosanna,  I  dare  not  let  go  for  a  moment." 

Aunt  Hosanna  came,  took  in  the  situation 
at  a  glance,  and  ran  out  of  the  room.  She 
returned  a  moment  later. 

"  Joan  sh'  'ave  goned  for  he,  down  tew 
th'  village.  Her  can  run  like  a  corn-crick 
when  her  like  tu.  An  my  dears,  tes  a  bad 
job,  deed  en  so,  but  'twould  ha'  bin'  worse 
if  him  hed  bin  out  a  fishin'.  But  tes  a  did 
calm,  and  arl  th'  boats  be  in  'abber,  thank 
th'  Lord !  "  she  concluded,  piously. 

"  Of  whom  do  you  speak  ?  "  asked  the 
agitated  Lady  Jane.  "If  the  doctor  happens 
to  be  in  the  village,  it  is  indeed  a  provi- 
dence  " 

"  Th'  doctor  !  "  echoed  Aunt  Hosanna, 
contemptuously.  "  When  folks  down  tew 
here  be  did,  em  dew  send  for  th'  doctor 

96 


"OCTAVIA    WENT   ABOUT    WITH    A    1'RUMNG-HOOK. "      />.  94. 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

to  tell  'em  what  'em  died  on,  an'  charge 
'em  haaf  a  crown  for  th'  opinion  and  th' 
certificate  throwed  in.  But  i'  cases  o'  suddin 
sickness  or  lewsin  o'  blid  ther  be  our  own 
folk — 'em  as  hes  the  gift  o'  yerbs,  an'  th' 
gift  o'  layin'  on  o'  hands,  an'  sich " 

"  Good  heavens  !  does  she  mean  to  say 
that  Joan  has  gone  for  some  village  quack 
instead  of ?  Quick,  Fanny — some- 
body !  Run  to  the  telegraph  office  !  Wire 
to  Pencarrick  for  the  doctor  !  " 

Fanny  dashed  from  the  room  as  Joan  re- 
entered,  breathless  and  crimson.  With  her 
was  Huey  Lenine.  The  sunbeams  pouring 
through  the  long  casements  illuminated  a 
strange  tableau.  Octavia,  ghastly  pale  and 
crimson-stained,  for  the  central  figure  ;  Rose- 
vear  Trelawney  and  Clara  Currey  supporting 
her,  little  less  pale,  certainly  as  incarnadined 
as  the  patient — the  anxious  faces  surround- 
ing, and  towering  above  all  the  broad 
shoulders,  yellow  curls,  and  grave  blue  eyes 
of  the  sunburnt  young  fisherman  ;  Joan's 
massive  outlines  and  olive-tints  completing 
the  picture. 

"  Mr.  Lenine — Huey,  can  you  help  us, 
really  ?  "  said  Rosevear,  in  desperate  anxiety. 

97  7 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  She  is  bleeding  terribly ;  she  is  getting 
weaker  every  moment,  and  the  doctor — 
Heaven  only  knows  when  he  will  come  !  " 

Huey  Lenine  came  forward,  cap  in  hand. 
He  was  not  awkward,  but  gravely  self- 
possessed. 

"If  he  can  do  anything  let  him  try," 
muttered  Octavia.  "  This  can't  go  on  much 
longer." 

The  grave  young  fisherman  nodded,  meet- 
ing the  consent  in  her  eyes.  He  strode 
nearer,  and  dropped  lightly  on  one  knee 
beside  her. 


XV 

"  WID  'ee  please  to  look  maw  straight  i' 
th'  eyes,  ma'am,"  Huey  Lenine  said  briefly. 
"  As  straight  as  may  be.  Please  none  to 
speak." 

Octavia,  white-lipped  and  hollow-eyed  from 
exhaustion,  fixed  her  eyes  somewhat  doubt- 
fully on  the  grave  blue  ones  of  the  young 
fisherman.  Clara  Currey,  who  had  taken 
Rosevear's  place,  raised  her  soft  brown 
glance  to  his,  shyly  and  trustingly.  She  held 
the  lips  of  the  gaping  wound  pressed  together, 
as  Rosevear  had  done,  but  the  red  drops 
crept  between  the  small  white  fingers  relent- 
lessly, one  by  one,  and  splashed  upon  the 
oaken  planks,  carrying  Octavia's  strength 
with  them. 

Huey  laid  one  brown  hand  upon  both 
Clara's  and  held  the  other  outspread,  a  few 
inches  above.  Then  he  began  to  recite,  or 
rather  intone,  in  an  odd,  pleasant  sing- 

99  7* 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

song,   a   doggerel   kind   of  rhyme,   in   much 
barbarised  Latin — 

Zanguis  mane  in  lay 

Ziccut  Christus  fuit  in  zay  : 

Zanguis  mane  in  tud  vend 

Ziccut  Christus  in  sud  pend 

Zanguis  mane  vixus 

Ziccut  Christus  quando  crucifixus. 

The  invocation  which  followed  brought 
the  rude  ceremony  to  an  end.  The  voice 
ceased,  but  the  room  yet  vibrated  with  its 
sound,  as  a  belfry  re-echoes  with  the  hum- 
ming of  a  great  bell  that  has  been  stricken. 
Octavia's  head  fell  back  on  Clara's  shoulder 
as  Huey  Lenine  rose  to  his  feet.  But  the 
flow  of  blood  had  stopped.  Huey  nodded, 
his  white  teeth  gleamed  in  a  satisfied  smile. 
He  saluted  the  ladies  with  a  sudden  accession 
of  sheepish  shyness,  and  strode  out  of  the 
room,  Joan  and  Aunt  Hosanna  following  at 
his  heels. 

Later  on  the  doctor  came,  a  bright-eyed, 
lively  little  man,  with  a  broad,  loud  accent 
and  a  considerable  amount  of  skill.  He  sewed 
up  the  gash,  and  enveloped  it  in  strictly 
professional  bandages,  and  expressed  no  sur- 
prise on  being  told  what  Huey  had  effected. 

"  It's  not  the  first  time  I  have  come  across 
100 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

the  young  fellow,"  he  said.  "  He  comes  of  a 
decent  family  enough — the  son  of  old  'Zekiel 
Lenine,  down  to  Porthporra.  Whatever  the 
'  gift,'  as  they  call  it,  may  be,  it  runs  in  the 
family.  'Zekiel  was  a  great  blood  charmer 
in  his  day,  and  so  was  his  grandfather  before 
him.  Yes,  yes,  there  are  more  things  known 
in  a  Cornish  village,  especially  with  regard 
to  the  art  of  healing,  than  are  dreamt  of 
in  the  philosophy  of  the  people  who  write 
medical  works.  Some  of  the  old  women, 
a'nts  as  they  call  'em,  can  do  more  with  a 
handful  of  what  they  call  '  yarribs  '  than 
I  can  with  the  College  of  Surgeons  and 
Apothecaries'  Hall  at  my  back.  Your  friend 
will  do  well  enough  now,  my  lady."  Lady 
Jane's  honourable  prefix  rolled  like  a  sugar- 
plum over  his  tongue.  "As  to  my  fee,  it  is 
three  and  sixpence,  without  counting  the 
journey  over,  which — thank  you  ! — although 
I  keep  my  own  gig,  involves  an  expenditure 
of  at  least  eighteenpennyworth  of  horse- 
flesh. I  had  a  colleague  here  some  years 
ago,  but  the  place  didn't  agree  with  him  and 
his  family — it  was  too  healthy.  Thank  you 
again,  my  lady.  Good  morning." 
The  garrulous  little  doctor  climbed  into 

101 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

his  gig  with  Huey's  assistance — he  was  as 
short  and  plump  as  the  vehicle  was  high  and 
spidery — and  drove  away. 

"  I  have  made  up  my  mind,"  said  Lady 
Jane,  following  him  down  the  road  with  her 
eye.  "  We  must  have  one." 

"  A  doctor  ?  Resident  on  the  premises  ?  " 
said  Fanny,  in  shrill  surprise. 

"  I  did  not  say  a  doctor  ;  I  meant  a  horse 
and  trap." 

"  Glorious  idea  !  The  thing  of  all  things 
that  would  make  me  perfectly  happy," 
cried  Marjory.  "  A  neat  little  red- wheeled 
dog-cart  with  a  cob,  a  shiny  cob,  in  bronze 
Lakeham  harness — and  a  boy  in  buttons, 
cords  and  tops  to  sit  behind  ?  "  Marjory 
clapped  her  hands. 

Lady  Jane  dealt  her  a  rebuking 
glance.  "  Extremely  nice,  as  you  say,  but 
hardly  the  thing  for  our  purposes.  The 
hampers  of  fruit,  the  crates  of  vegetables, 
the  boxes  of  eggs,  are  they  to  be  conveyed 
to  the  railway  in  your  red-wheeled  dog-cart  ? 
If  so,  the  boy  in  buttons  and  cords  will  have 
to  sit  on  top  of  them,  or  run  behind.  My 
child,  you  forget  that  we  are  market- 
gardeners,  pur  et  simple,  and  that  shiny  cobs 

102 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

in  Lakeham  harness  belong  to  the  social 
status  we  have  abandoned.  Our  horse  must 
be  a  serviceable  animal  who  knows  what 
ploughing  means,  and  has  no  objection  to 
make  himself  useful  in  drawing  loads  of 
gravel  or  manure.  A  market  cart,  or  a 
light  wagon  with  a  movable  canvas  tilt, 
with  a  plank  seat,  upon  which  the  driver 
may  sit " 

"  With  legs  dangling  over  the  beast's 
tail !  I  would  rather  die,"  cried  Marjory, 
"  than  undergo  such  degradation.  Fancy  if 
the  Platt-Hennikers  and  the  Brown-Gingalls 
and  Lady  Betts  were  to  see  us,  Fanny,  after 
the  way  in  which  we  have  talked  of  our 
grand  projects  !  ' 

"  You  did  all  the  talking,"  said  Fanny. 
"  I  only  sat  by  and  listened,  while  your  re- 
cording angel  sharpened  his  black-lead  pencil 
and  wept  over  the  colossal  fibs  you  were 
telling.  Don't  contradict.  You  know  you 
multiplied  the  acres  of  Killigarth  by  hundreds, 
established  a  vinery  in  full  blast,  a  palm- 
house  several  degrees  more  gorgeous  than  the 
one  at  Kew,  turned  the  dear  old  cottage  into 
a  Tudoresque  mansion,  and  Rosevear  into  a 
county  heiress." 

103 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"Well,  she  is  one,  or  would  be,  but  for 
The  Usurper,"  protested  Marjory. 

"  But  for  her  grandfather.  The  Usurper 
has  done  nothing,  poor  fellow,  except  risk 
his  bones  for  her  sake  and  Clara's.  As 
for  the  Platt-Hennikers,  and  the  Brown- 
Gingalls  and  Lady  Betts,  if  ever  I  meet 
them  when  I  am  driving  to  market,  dangling 
my  legs  over  the  horse's  tail,  they  are  at 
liberty  to  cut  me,  or  to  get  up  and  dangle 
their  legs  beside  mine.  That  is  all  I  have 
got  to  say."  She  spoke  briskly,  and  with 
great  determination. 

"  Fanny's  character  is  beginning  to  form," 
Lady  Jane  whispered  in  Rosevear's  ear. 

"  As  her  figure  becomes  indefinable." 

"  She  has  left  corsets  off.  I  have  noticed 
it  quite  recently.  Well,  I  suppose  it  is  a  step 
in  the  right  direction." 

"  Say  a  bound  from  a  waist  of  eighteen 
inches  to  one  of  twenty-five.  Heroic  girl ! 
What  sufferings  she  must  have  endured, 
silently,  in  her  fashionable  days.  You  re- 
member the  belt  she  used  to  sport  ?  A  St. 
Bernard  dog-collar." 

"  And  the  heels  she  used  to  wear.  Cer- 
tainly Marjory  is  right,  Fanny  has  lowered 

104 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

herself  considerably  by  going  into  the  garden- 
ing business.  Come,  my  dear,  and  let  us 
see  what  Maria  Mulcher  has  to  say  on  the 
subject  of  horses.  I  should  prefer,  in  select- 
ing our  equipage,  as  in  laying  out  our  garden, 
to  be  guided  by  that  estimable  person's 
advice." 


105 


XVI 

"  ON  CHOOSING  A  HORSE. — That  this  quad- 
ruped existed  before  the  Flood,  the  researches 
of  geologists  afford  abundant  proof.  Horses 
were  presented  to  Abraham  by  Pharaoh,  the 
monarch  of  Egypt " 

"  This  tendency  to  digression  is  what  I 
find  fault  with  in  Maria.  She  never  seems 
to  realise  that  one  may  want  to  consult  her 
in  a  hurry ;  one  has  to  dig  the  advice  one 
wants  from  under  a  stodgy  mass  of  accumu- 
lated facts  and  sonorous  platitudes." 

"  She  is  coming  to  the  point,  Octavia,  dear, 
if  you  will  only  be  patient.  Listen  !  '  From 
time  immemorial  the  Sahara  has  bred  a  noble 
race  of  barbs,  known  by  the  name  of  the 
Wind-sucker,  or  Desert  Horse ' ' 

"  I  always  thought  wind-sucking  was  a 
vice,  like  crib-biting,  and  the  other  things 
one  hears  of." 

"  Never  mind  the  girls  ;  read  on,  Lady 
Jane." 

106 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  The  following  anecdote  of  the  attach- 
ment of  an  Arab  to  his  steed  has  been  pathe- 
tically described  in  the  following  lines " 

Lady  Jane's  accents  were  drowned  in  a 
clamour  of  voices. 

"  O — h  !   spare  us,  please  spare  us  !  " 

"  I  knew  she  would  not  let  us  off  without 
quoting  that  hoary  legend.  Skip  it,  for 
Heaven's  sake,  and  go  on.  Job  will  be  here 
with  that  horse  he  told  us  about  before  there 
is  time  to  turn  round,  and  how  are  we  to 
tell  his  good  points  from  his  bad  ones  unless 
we  know  something  about  the  subject  ?  " 

"  The  hoofs  should  be  elegant  in  shape, 
rounded,  and  small,  the  pasterns  strong  yet 
delicate,  the  hocks  flat  and  muscular,  the 
forearms " 

"  Four  legs,  she  means.  I  wonder  if  Maria 
is  given  to  drinking  ?  " 

"  The  forearms,  or  thighs  under  the 
shoulders,  should  be  powerful,  veinous,  and 
graceful.  The  chest  should  be  broad,  the 
neck  arched  and  swelling,  the  head  small  and 
long,  the  eye  large  and  full  of  fire,  the 
haunches  muscular,  fleshy,  and  strong,  the 
barrel  well  rounded.  The  animal  that  comes 
up  to  these  requirements  in  every  particular 

107 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

may  be  termed  a  perfect  specimen   of   the 
equine  genus." 

"  Bravo,  Maria  !  Now  we  shall  be  able 
to  see  our  way.  '  Pasterns  strong.'  What 
are  a  horse's  pasterns,  by-the-bye — his  front 
ankles  ?  Oh,  of  course  !  Do  you  know," 
giggled  Fanny,  "  that  this  seems  to  me  an 
occasion  upon  which  the  presence  of  one  of 
Octavia's  iron-handed  oppressors  would  be 
distinctly  advantageous.  I  feel  sure  we  are 
going  to  be  cheated ;  can't  tell  why,  it's 
in  the  air.  Here's  Job  with  the  steed  !  Do 
you  think  he  comes  of  the  celebrated  Saharan 
wind-sucking  breed,  or  does  he  belong  to  one 
of  the  other  kind  ?  " 

"  To  the  former,  I  should  say.  He  looks 
as  though  air  had  formed  the  staple  article 
of  his  diet  for  some  time  past." 

The  animal  thus  criticised  was  being  led 
up  and  down  the  patch  of  shelly  gravel 
before  the  back  door  by  a  farm  labourer, 
while  Miller  Job  leant  against  the  garden 
gate  in  conversation  with  Aunt  Hosanna. 

"  Him  be  nothing  pridy  to  look  at,  for 
sure,"  commented  Aunt  Hosanna,  "  but 
'ansum  is  as  'ansum  diz  ;  en  ther  niver  was 
a  trewer  zayin'." 

108 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

The  plaintive-looking  animal  turned  a  lack- 
lustre eye  upon  the  group  now  assembled. 
Lady  Jane  and  her  companions  regarded  him 
in  silence.  He  certainly  did  not  come  up  to 
Maria  Mulcher's  standard  of  perfection.  His 
back  was  hollow  and  his  ribs  painfully  per- 
ceptible ;  his  legs  were  clumsy,  and  his  head 
like  a  fiddle.  Yet  Miller  Job  had  said  he 
was  a  good  horse — of  his  kind. 

"  Why  does  he  catch  up  one  hind  leg  when 
he  walks  ?  "  asked  Fanny  Dormer. 

"  Cause  him  a  bit  of  a  halter,"  explained 
his  proprietor. 

"  Oh,"  said  Fanny,  looking  wise ;  "I 
thought  he  might  be  subject  to  spasms,  that 
was  all." 

"  Niver  ailed  since  him  were  borned,"  said 
the  man.  He  jerked  the  bridle,  and  the 
animal  elevated  a  rat-like  tail,  and  made 
some  blundering  paces.  "  Woa,  will  'ee  ! 
Full  o'  sperit,"  he  exclaimed  aside. 

"  Would  he  be  quiet  in  harness  ?  "  hazarded 
Lady  Jane. 

"  Quiet !  Mite  as  well  driv  an  ould  cow, 
'ee  mite.  Ain't  got  a  keck  in  he,  have  'im  ?  " 

"  Not  half  a  keck,"  testified  Miller  Job. 

"  How  old  is  he  ?  "  asked  Rosevear. 
109 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  Risin'  five.  Look  at  eas  teath  ;  'em  '11 
tell  'ee." 

A  set  of  long  yellow  grinders  was  here 
displayed,  to  the  evident  distaste  of  their 
owner. 

"  Can  he  pull  a  load  ?  " 

"  Can  'im  pull  a  loerd  ?  " 

"  You  jest  ask  'im  !  Aw  could' n  say  vairer 
than  thot,  could'n,  nayber  Job  ?  " 

"  Naw,  sure." 

"  Aw  niver  hed  th'  gift  o'  th'  gab,  tes  not 
vouchsafed  maw  to  be  ready  wi'  my  tongue, 
but  aw  might  say  a  deal  abud  that  'oarse, 
an'  niver  singe  my  soul  for  it.  Eh,  naber  ?  " 

"  Sure,  indeed  !  " 

"  And  how  much  do  you  want  for  him  ?  " 

"  Zeven  pun  ten.  Tes  givin'  o'  he  away, 
but  the  man  es  owneth  th'  'oarse,  heeth  a 
leavin'  th'  country." 

"  What  do  you  think,  girls  ?  "  appealed 
Lady  Jane.  "  Shall  we  have  him  or  shall 
we  not  ?  I  almost  think  we  had  better." 
So  the  bargain  was  concluded. 

"  Stop  one  moment,"  Rosevear  cried,  as 
the  labourer  pocketed  his  money  and  handed 
over  the  horse  to  the  miller,  to  whose  care 
it  was  to  be  entrusted  until  its  own  stable 

no 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

could  be  prepared  to  receive  it.  "  What  is 
the  name  of  the  person  who  has  just  sold  us 
this  animal  ?  " 

"  Him  said  aw  win't  to  tell  'ee  till  the  bar- 
gain wer'  strook,"  the  hind  replied,  grinning. 
"  Tis  Mester  Pengwillian  es  used  to  live  tew 
'eer." 

'  The  rogue  Pengwillian  !  "  Rosevear  grew 
poppy-red  with  indignation. 

"  If  I  had  only  known,"  she  cried,  as  the 
heavy  boots  of  the  rustic  kloppetted  down 
the  lane  and  Job  led  away  their  purchase  to 
its  accustomed  stable,  "  I  could  have  seized 
that  horse  for  rent,  and  defied  the  wretch 
to  claim  him." 

'  The  thing  is  done  and  the  money  paid," 
said  Lady  Jane,  "  and  there  is  no  backing 
out  of  it.  But  I  shall  never  be  able  to  look 
Maria  Mulcher  in  the  face  again." 


in 


XVII 

THINGS  were  making  wonderful  progress. 
A  year  had  passed,  it  was  late  August  again, 
and  the  gardeners  already  began  to  reap 
reward  of  their  labours.  Peas  had  been 
plentiful,  beans  were  a  drug  in  the  market, 
raspberries  and  currants  bent  their  bushes 
to  the  ground.  Rosevear  had  achieved  a 
celery  bed,  which  already  promised  noble 
things  ;  melons  were  confidently  prophesied 
by  the  guardians  of  the  greenhouse.  Octavia, 
restored  to  health  and  to  a  more  sparing  use  of 
the  billhook,  watched  with  glowing  pride  the 
efforts  made  by  her  young  plums,  cherries, 
and  apple  standards  to  bear  all  alone,  and 
Fanny  had  become  a  connoisseur  as  to  com- 
posts and  a  sage  in  the  matter  of  mushroom 
spawn.  The  fowl-houses  stood  nobly  com- 
plete— things  of  beauty  and  joys  for  ever  ; 
and  the  one  bitter  drop  in  Lady  Jane's  cup 
was  the  unwillingness  of  her  young  Aylesbuiy 

112 


"  HIM  BK  NOTHING  PRIHY  TO  LOOK  AT,  KOR  SURE."   f>.  IO8. 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

ducks  to  avail  themselves  of  the  home  com- 
forts provided  them. 

"  It  is  such  a  lovely  pond — quite  like  a 
Roman  bath,"  she  used  to  say,  "  and  yet 
they  will  not  go  into  it.  Can  it  be  anything 
in  the  cement  ?  " 

The  thought  haunted  her  day  and  night, 
and  Fanny,  who  was  really  a  good-natured 
girl,  endeavoured  by  means  of  divers  well- 
meant  stratagems  to  relieve  the  tension  of 
the  dear  woman's  mind. 

"  Come  and  look,"  she  would  cry,  appear- 
ing heated  and  breathless  in  Lady  Jane's 
presence.  "  I  told  you  they  only  wanted 
time.  They  are  in,  every  one  of  them,  and 
swimming  about  like  anything." 

But  when  Lady  Jane  hastened  to  banquet 
on  the  sight,  the  last  duck  would  be  climb- 
ing out  of  the  pond  amidst  a  chorus  of 
indignant  quackings,  and  Fanny's  reappear- 
ance would  be  the  signal  for  a  general 
stampede. 

Then  the  Brahma  cock,  who  was  on  a  visit 
of  approval,  could  not  be  brought  to  crow. 
And  everybody  knows  that  a  great  deal 
depends  upon  the  crow  of  a  Brahma.  To 
indicate  irreproachability  of  lineage,  for 

113  8 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

instance,  it  should  resemble  a  donkey's 
bray  as  closely  as  possible.  And  here  was 
this  biped,  upon  whom  the  fortunes  of  the 
entire  poultry  yard  depended,  maintaining 
a  reserve  as  rigid  as  that  of  a  monk  of  La 
Trappe.  Fanny  suggested  that  he  might 
have  been  hatched  dumb,  but  who  ever 
heard  of  a  voiceless  Brahma  rooster  ?  In 
the  contemplation  of  the  steed  some  real 
comfort  was  to  be  obtained.  Sahara,  as 
he  had  been  christened  by  general  acclaim, 
had  acquired,  under  the  more  generous 
regime  prescribed  for  him,  a  superficial 
polish,  a  less  morbidly  melancholy  expres- 
sion, and  a  growing  tendency  in  the  direc- 
tion of  plumpness.  A  light  tilted  cart  had 
been  bought  second-hand  in  Pencarrick, 
also  a  suit  of  plain  but  neat  harness. 
Nothing  was  now  needed,  Lady  Jane  reflected, 
but  the  fruit,  flowers,  and  vegetables  where- 
with to  load  the  vehicle,  a  cheap  contract 
with  the  railway  authorities  for  conveyance 
of  the  same  to  distant  markets,  and  eager 
buyers  to  purchase  them  (for  ready  money) 
when  they  got  there. 

"  You    really    need    cheering/*    Rosevear 
said,    discovering    Lady    Jane   in    a   brown 

114 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

study  induced  by  cogitations  such  as  the 
foregoing.  "  You,  once  the  most  hopeful 
and  energetic  of  us  all,  are  actually  getting 
below  par.  I  have  an  idea."  She  clapped 
her  hands  and  laughed  anticipatively. 
"  This  is  the  last  day  of  harvest.  We  will 
go  up  to  Peniel — the  big  farm  that  lies  just 
beyond  the  valley-edge,  and  hear  the  reapers 
cry  the  neck.  You  have  a  Conservative 
love  of  ancient  customs — Octavia  has  a 
Liberal  abomination  for  them.  The  theme 
will  give  you  plenty  of  opportunities  for 
downright  argument — just  the  kind  of  stimu- 
lant you  require  at  the  present  moment. 
Put  on  your  hats,  girls.  Joan  and  Aunt 
Hosanna  are  coming,  and  Huey  Lenine  with 
his  fiddle.  You  have  never  yet  heard  Huey 
fiddle,  any  of  you." 

"  I  have,"  said  little  Clara  Currey. 
"  Sometimes  when  I  have  been  sitting  alone 
in  the  twilight,  and  he  and  Joan  were  to- 
gether in  the  kitchen — thinking  the  house 
quite  empty — I  have  heard  him  playing ; 
accompanying  her  voice,  too,  sometimes — for 
she  sings  quite  beautifully." 

"  You  hear,"  said  Rosevear.  "  Songs  by 
Miss  Joan  Melhuish,  with  violin  solos  by 

115  8* 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

Mr.  Huey  Lenine,  will  be  on  the  programme. 
We  will  have  a  good  time — a  real  old  Cornish 
time." 

Rosevear's  persuasions  were  irresistible. 
They  put  on  their  hats  in  two  minutes  and 
went  up  to  Peniel. 


116 


XVIII 

THE  Peniel  home-field,  last  to  succumb  to 
the  sharp  attack  of  the  sickle,  was  nearly 
cut  out.  Groups  of  tanned  bare-armed  men 
and  sun-bonneted  women  lounged  under  the 
hedges  or  in  the  shadow  of  the  tall  sheaf- 
capped  wheat-stooks,  joking,  gossiping,  and 
circulating  brown  stone  cider-pitchers  from 
hand  to  hand,  while  apple-cheeked  urchins 
of  both  sexes,  replete  with  blackberries,  drop- 
cake,  and  potato-pasty,  rolled  amongst  the 
stubbles  at  their  feet.  Westwards,  a  seg- 
ment of  the  sun  had  already  dipped  behind 
the  white  billows  of  close-shorn  harvest- 
land  that  went  sweeping  down  to  meet  it. 
And  a  frosty-pale  umbra  of  the  harvest- 
moon  hung  in  the  cold  radiant  blue  of  the 
opposite  horizon,  just  clear  of  the  high 
ground  that  combed  over  to  Killigarth 
Valley,  and  faintly  smiled  in  mockery  of  the 
declining  King  of  Day. 

"  This     is     really — nice,"    said     Marjory 
117 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

Dormer,  approvingly.  The  community  had 
seated  itself  upon  a  sloping  bank  at  the 
upper  edge  of  the  cornfield,  and  from  this 
post  of  vantage  viewed  the  pastoral  scene. 
"  This  is  really  quite  nice  !  " 

"  Marjory  greatly  reminds  me,"  said  Rose- 
vear  Trelawney,  nibbling  a  claw  of  the 
seeding  crowsfoot,  "of  a  globe-trotting 
literary  female  whom  I  once  encountered 
in  Norway.  We  were  doing  the  fjords,  and 
hunting  scenery  and  sunsets  generally,  and 
when  we  had  all  scurried  on  deck  to  look 
at  something  especially  stupendous — some- 
thing that  brought  a  lump  into  one's 
throat  and  the  water  into  one's  eyes,  for 
very  grandeur  and  solemnity,  this  baleful 
person  would  nod  and  put  up  her  pince-nez 
— toujours  that  pince-nez — and  say  how  well 
the  thing  was  done,  as  if  it  had  been  a  stage 
effect  carefully  calculated  beforehand.  One 
began  to  imagine  one  heard  the  fizzing  of  the 
lime-light  behind  the  wings ;  one  began  to 
expect  a  call  for  the  scenic  artist  and  the 
stage-manager.  Throughout  the  greater  part 
of  the  excursion  she  went  on,  blandly  patting 
Nature  on  the  back,  and  driving  us  gradu- 
ally to  frenzy.  Then,  quite  suddenly,  she 

118 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

vanished,  and  was  no  more  seen.  I  really 
think  somebody  must  have  quietly  dropped 
her  overboard.  And  Marjory  reminded  me 
of  her  just  now." 

"  Marjory  has  no  artistic  sensitiveness," 
cried  Fanny  jubilantly.  "  In  Italy  she  was 
always  grumbling  about  the  smells — she 
would  wind,  follow  up,  and  analyse  a  smell, 
just  as  an  Archae — what  do  you  call  him — 
would  determine  a  period.  While  as  for 
me — !  I  never  shall  forget  the  first  time 
I  went  into  an  orange-grove  in  full  bloom, 
you  know.  I  simply  screamed,  and  sat 
down  flat  f  " 

"  Bravo  Fan  !  " 

"  Beauty  affecteth  the  gazer  in   different   ways   and 

diverse ; 
It  filleth  (him  or  her)  to  the  throat,  congesting  the 

gurgling  channels  of  speech  : 
Or  it  swelleth  the  sources  of  (his  or  her)  spirit  until  it 

bursteth  the  floodgates  of  poesy  : 
Or  druggeth  the  senses,  so  that  the  trembling  limbs 

refuse  to  fulfil  their  office  ; 
For  (her  or  him)  and  (he  or  she)  exclaimeth,  and 

sitteth  down  with  a  bump  !  " 

"  Dear  me  !  I  am  becoming  quite  Tup- 
perian  or  Walt  Whitmanish,  I  don't  know 
which.  Listen  !  Huey  Lenine  is  tuning  his 

119 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

fiddle,"  as  a  long-drawn  plaintive  wail  from 
the  E  string  quivered  to  their  ears.  "  And 
here  is  Joan  coming  to  us.  I  wonder  what 
she  wants  ?  " 

"A  bit  o'  ribben,  Miss/'  said  Joan,  en- 
treatingly.  "  Th'  men  wid  have  me  ask 
'ee.  Tis  to  bind  the  '  neck.'  ' 

"  To  bind  whose  neck  ?  "  Fanny  Dormer 
asked  anxiously. 

"  Please  ?  " 

'  Joan  doesn't  realise  that  you  are  a 
stranger  to  Cornish  customs,  Fan,"  said 
Rosevear.  "  Lend  her  the  bit  of  blue  ribbon 
you  tied  on  your  hat  this  morning.  I  am 
destitute  of  any  detachable  adornment — 
and  you  will  soon  be  enlightened." 

Fanny  graciously  complied.  Joan  hur- 
riedly ran  off  with  her  prize,  and  after  the 
lapse  of  a  minute  or  two,  a  straggling  pro- 
cession of  harvesters  drew  near.  Foremost 
in  the  van  hobbled  a  white-headed  ancient, 
attired  in  a  long  smock-frock.  Dicky  Daisy 
— for  it  was  the  hero  of  the  cabbage  episode 
— carried  a  miniature  wheat-sheaf  with  pro- 
jecting arms.  It  had  been  very  neatly 
woven,  and  ornamented  with  marigolds  and 
other  cottage  garden  flowers,  and  Miss 

120 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

Dormer's  blue  ribbon  had  been  tied  round  its 
middle,  sash-wise,  so  that  it  bore  no  very 
distant  resemblance  to  a  preternaturally 
stiff  baby. 

"  That  is  the  '  neck/  "  exclaimed  Miss 
Trelawney,  "  and  Dicky  Daisy,  in  considera- 
tion of  his  years  and  virtues,  has  been  elected 
as  High  Priest,  Chief  Druid,  and  Grand 
Medicine  Man  upon  this  occasion.  They  are 
going  to  march  round  the  field — to  the  music 
of  Huey's  fiddle  "  — Huey  struck  up  a  lively 
tune — "  and  then  they  will  all  troop  up  to 
Peniel  mowhay,  and  " — Rosevear  jumped 
up  impetuously,  "  We  will  go  too.  I  feel 
as  if  somebody  had  taken  me  up  and  dropped 
me  down  in  the  middle  ages.  Come,  Lady 
Jane,  and  look  as  Anglo-Saxon  as  ever  you 
can.  Come,  Clara,  come  Marjory,  come — 

Doll  and  Deb,  and  Sue,  and  Kate, 
and  Dorothy  Draggletail." 

Her  enthusiasm  was  infectious  ;  the  ladies 
of  Killigarth  brought  up  the  rear  of  the 
motley  procession,  which  after  straggling 
round  the  field,  streamed  out  of  it,  and  pro- 
ceeded up  the  dusty  road  in  the  direction 
of  the  farm-buildings.  Outside  the  rick- 

121 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

yard,  where  some  of  the  farm  servants  and 
children  were  already  assembled,  a  pause 
was  made,  and  Dicky  Daisy,  bearing  his 
gay  burden  proudly  aloft,  entered  alone. 
Then  he  proclaimed  in  shrill  cracked  accents, 
"  Aw  have  en  !  " 

"  Wot  have  'ee  ?  "  inquired  a  stentorian 
voice  from  the  crowd,  evidently  in  accord- 
ance with  prescribed  formula. 

"  Aw  HAVE  EN  !  "  repeated  Dicky. 

"  WOT  HAVE  'EE  ?  "  bellowed  the  black- 
smith, whose  leathern  apron,  and  smudgy 
arms  announced  his  calling. 

"  Aw  HAVE  EN  ?  " 

"  WOT  HAVE  'EE  ?  " 

"  Th'  neck,  th'  neck,  th'  neck  / "  chanted 
Dicky. 

"  Hurrah  for  the  neck !  "  shouted  the 
blacksmith  pulling  off  his  hat. 

"  Hurrah !  " 

The  cheer  was  twice  repeated,  and  the 
crowd  poured  in  through  the  gates. 

"  They  are  going  to  drink  the  farmer's 
health  in  cider,  and  eat  it  in  cake  and 
cheese,"  whispered  Rosevear. 

She  turned  with  her  companions  to  depart, 
when  a  touch  upon  her  arm  arrested  her. 

122 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  Please,"  whispered  Huey  Lenine,  "  Mr. 
Polwheal  have  seen  'ee,  and  begs  ye  would 
be  so  polite  as  to  step  in.  There  is  no  mis- 
tress body  about  th'  place,  him  being  a 
widow  man,  but " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  ladies,"  said  a  melan- 
choly voice,  as  a  tall  figure  barred  the  way, 
"  but  I  should  be  honoured  by  your  stepping 
in.  'Tis  an  old  country  custom  to  keep  open 
house  th'  last  night  of  harvest,  and  since 
you  are  so  kind  as  to  take  an  interest " 

Mr.  Polwheal  coughed  bashfully,  and  Lady 
Jane  graciously  accepted  the  invitation  for 
herself  and  companions.  Supported  on  the 
farmer's  arm,  and  followed  by  her  party, 
the  patrician  spinster  picked  her  way  through 
the  litter  of  the  rickyard  and  entered  the 
house. 


123 


THE  great  kitchen  of  the  farmhouse  was 
crowded  with  people,  and  lighted  with  many 
dip  candles.  The  "  neck  "  already  dangled 
from  the  middle  beam  of  the  ceiling,  and 
mugs  of  ale  and  pitchers  of  cider  were  being 
brought  in  relays  from  the  cellar  and  briskly 
passing  from  hand  to  hand,  with  chunks 
of  curranty  harvest  cake  and  slices  of 
cheese. 

"  Please  to  be  seated,  ladies,"  said  the 
farmer,  dislodging  a  row  of  yellow-headed 
boys  and  girls  from  the  settle  on  which  they 
had  mounted.  "  Ephraim,  are  these  your 
manners  ?  Janetta,  I  am  surprised  at  you  !  " 

"  Tis  Harry  and  Mary,  father/'  corrected 
an  elder  olive-branch. 

"  Harry  and  Mary,  then,"  amended  Mr. 
Polwheal.  He  encountered  the  glance  of 
Fanny  Dormer,  and  shook  his  head,  sadly. 
"  There  are  a  dozen  of  them,"  he  exclaimed, 

124 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  and  they  all  come  very  close  together, 
Miss.  I  had  the  misfortune  to  lose  their 
mother  a  twelvemonth  ago.  She  was  an 
excellent  woman,  and  bore  all  their  names 
and  constitutions  in  mind  in  a  manner  quite 
marvellous  to  the  beholder,  while  I " — 
he  shook  his  head  and  sighed  again — "  not 
possessing  her  gift,  I  am  apt  to  mix  up  my 
parental  duties.  This  morning,  for  instance, 
I  gave  a  tablespoonful  of  Jones's  Chemical 
Food  to  William,  who  is  a  strong,  healthy 
boy,  while  Oliver,  who  is  far  from  robust, 
received  a  dose  of  brimstone  and  treacle 
intended  for  his  brother.  The  path  of  a 
widower,  Miss — or  Mrs.  ? " 

"  Miss  Dormer,"  interjected  Fanny,  as 
Mr.  Polwheal  hesitated  inquiringly. 

"  The  path  of  a  widower,  Miss  Dormer, 
is  beset  with  obstacles.  May  I  offer  you 
some  refreshment  ?  Wine  ?  Cake  ?  Cham- 
pagne cider  ?  My  poor  Drusilla  was  noted 
for  her  champagne  cider.  Nothing  ?  Will 
none  of  the  ladies  accept  anything  ?  I  am  a 
middling  host,  I  fear,  but  under  the  circum- 
stances— being  deprived  of  my  right  hand, 
as  one  may  say  !  What,  Lenine,  you  are  not 
going  without  giving  us  a  tune  ?  and,  Joan 

125 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

Melhuish,  child,  I  have  not  heard  a  note 
from  you  since  last  Christmas  twelvemonth. 
Joan  is  a  born  singer,  Miss  Dormer.  My 
poor  Dmsilla  had  a  pretty  turn  for  a  ballad 
in  her  younger  days  before  I  married  her, 
and  became  what  I  now  am,"  said  the  dis- 
consolate mourner. 

"  Sing  to  us,  Joan,"  said  Miss  Trelawney, 
dexterously  stemming  the  current  of  Mr. 
PolwheaTs  poignant  recollections. 

"  Her  be  shyed  like,"  said  Lenine,  showing 
his  strong  white  teeth  in  a  smile,  "  Bint  'ee, 
Joan  ?  " 

"  No  need  for  shyness,"  said  Mr.  Polwheal 
briskly,  "  all  friends  and  neighbours  here." 

Joan  Melhuish  dropped  her  black  lashes 
timidly,  and  made  a  little  curtsey. 

"  If  th'  ladies  wish "  she  began.  The 

rest  of  the  speech  was  lost  in  Huey's  prelude. 

"  Tes  '  Perra  Pentreath/  "  he  said  ;  and 
Joan,  suddenly  throwing  her  shyness  to  the 
winds,  drew  herself  up  to  her  full  height, 
and  swelled  her  deep  chest,  and  sang : 


126 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 


PERRA  PENTREATH. 

Hev  ma  cheeks  lost  ther  red  ? 

Perra  Pentreath  ! 
Lies  th'  snow  on  ma  head  ? 

Perra  Pentreath  ! 
That  ma  glass  tells  ma  trew 
Lads'  tender  glances  shoo 
Wuldst  'ee  a  maid  shuld  woo., 

Perra  Pentreath  ? 

Many  desire  o'  ma, 

Perra  Pentreath  ! 

'Tis  thine  t'  fire  ma, 

Perra  Pentreath  ! 

Ill  wisht  ma  bearin'  wan 

That  life  aw'm  wearin'  on. 

Cryin',  despairin'  on, 

Perra  Pentreath ! 

Had  aw  th'  Pisky's  wand, 

Perra  Pentreath ! 
But'ee  should  bide  ma  hand  ; 

Perra  Pentreath  ! 
Shudst  knaw  th'  lack  o'  peacer 
Wild  longin'  after  bliss — 
Sue  me  upo'  thy  knees — 
Perra  Pentreath  ! 
127 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

Aw'd  mock  thee  i'  thy  pain, 

Perra  Pentreath  ! 
Wi'  looks  o'  high  disdain, 

Perra  Pentreath  ! 
Pass  'ee  at  feast  or  fair, 
Wi'  words  as  light  as  air — 
My  burden  'ee  should  bear, 

Perra  Pentreath  ! 

When  wan  an'  wisht  you'm  laid, 

Perra  Pentreath  ! 
Down  on  a  dyin'  bed, 

Perra  Pentreath  ! 
Ere  th'  pale  lids  should  creep 
Down  on  thy  last  long  sleep, 
Aw  would  ner  sigh  ner  weep, 

Perra  Pentreath  ! 

But  bend  thy  couch  above — 

Perra  Pentreath  ! 
But  whisper  to  'ee  "  Love  ! 

Perra  Pentreath  !  " 
But  clasp  'ee  to  ma  breast, 
Dyin'  wi'ee  embraced — 
Niver  in  life  so  blest — 

Perra  Pentreath  ! 

The  brick-floored,  tile-hearthed,  old-fash- 
ioned kitchen,  with  its  heavy  ceiling-beams 
decorated  with  dangling  flitches,  strings  of 
red  onions,  and  last,  but  not  least,  the  deco- 
rated "  neck,"  illuminated  by  the  flickering 
candle-light,  the  semicircle  of  rough  lis- 

128 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

tening   faces,   the   handsome   bent   head   of 
the  young  fisherman,  who  coaxed  tones  of 
wonderful  sweetness  out  of  the  very  ordinary 
instrument    he    handled,    and    the    central 
figure  of  the  singer,  made  up  a  picture  not 
easily   to   be   forgotten.     A   rope   of   Joan's 
silky  black  hair,  loosened  from  its  coil  by 
the  tugging  fingers  of  a  neighbour's  baby, 
had  fallen  across  her  bosom,  and  her  fingers 
played  with  it   unconsciously   as   she  sang. 
The  grave  pure  lines  of  her  olive-tinted  face 
and   throat,    the   statuesque   proportions   of 
her  noble  figure,  were  revealed  in  their  full 
beauty  by  the  scanty  folds  of  the  blue  print 
gown  she  wore.     Her  coarse  straw  hat,  with 
a  bunch  of  poppies   and   azure  blue   corn- 
flowers pinned  in   it,   hung  upon  her   arm. 
But,  as  the  last  of  the  rich  contralto  notes 
died  upon  the  air,  and  the  rough  plaudits 
of  her  hearers  broke  out  on  every  side,  the 
girl's  Here-like  repose  and  calm  self-posses- 
sion deserted  her.     She  became  the  old  shy 
Joan  once  more,  and  drowning  in  blushes, 
she    cast    an    appealing    look    towards    her 
mistress,  and  fairly  ran  away. 

'  Well,  well !  "  chorused  the  farm  women. 
"  The  shyness  o'  she,  my  dear  heart !  '' 

129  9 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  Her  be  so  skeary  as  a  colt,  when  folks 
will  praise  her  singin',"  said  Lenine.  "  Ye 
all  do  knaw  how  it  be  wi'  her,  neighbours  ?  " 

"  Sure,  indeed  !  " 

"  Run  after  th'  maid,  and  bring  her  back," 
said  Farmer  Polwheal. 

"  'Tain't  no  guid.  Her'll  not  come  unless 
her  be  minded." 

Huey  bent  his  brown  cheek  to  the  fiddle, 
and  dashed  into  a  lively  jig.  From  that  he 
trailed  off  into  the  "  Banks  of  Allan  Water," 
and  a  series  of  modulations  in  the  minor, 
spun  before  long  into  a  shining  thread  of 
melody,  plaintive,  vibrating  with  mingled 
anguish  and  passion.  It  sounded  strangely 
familiar  to  Miss  Trelawney.  Later  on,  as 
she  walked  home  with  her  companions,  in 
the  light  of  the  now  fully  risen  moon,  she 
remembered  why. 

"  The  '  Night  in  June,'  of  course.  How 
stupid  of  me  not  to  recognise  it,  especially 
when  it  is  Clara's  favourite  song.  Lenine 
must  have  heard  you  singing,  Clarrikins, 
and  picked  it  up." 

"  Have  you  forgotten,  love,  so  soon, 
That  night — that  lovely  night  in  June  ?  " 

trilled  Fanny  Dormer,  as  Clara  Currey  gave 

130 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

no  immediate  reply.  "  By  the  way,  Lady 
Jane,  you  have  made  an  impression.  Mr. 
Polwheal  asked  me  in  confidence  before  we 
left  whether  there  was,  in  Irish  parlance, 
'  a  man  that  owned  you.'  Also  whether 
you  liked  housekeeping  and  had  a  good 
memory.  Probably  with  a  view  to  the 
enlisting  of  your  services  in  the  matter  of 
classifying  and  labelling  his  numerous  off- 
spring. What  shall  you  say  to  him  when 
he  comes  a- wooing,  Lady  Jane,  and  0, 
how  do  you  think  the  Earl  will  look  when 
he  gets  the  wedding  cards  ?  " 

"  Lady  Jane  is  not  likely  to  be  troubled 
with  Mr.  Polwheal' s  attentions,"  interposed 
Octavia  before  the  above-mentioned  lady 
could  recover  from  the  shock  of  Fanny's 
attack.  "  He  asked  me,  before  he  left, 
whether  he  might  call  ?  and  I  took  pains 
to  let  him  know  that  we  were  determined 
not  to  encourage  any  idle  curiosity  on  the 
part  of  the  opposite  sex.  It  is  best  to  begin 
as  we  mean  to  go  on,  is  it  not  ?  Though 
we  shall  have  to  make  an  exception  in  favour 
of  the  Vicar,  who  is  coming  to  pay  us  a 
pastoral  visit  to-morrow." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  " 

131  9* 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  I  met  him  in  Porthporra  post-office 
this  morning.  He  introduced  himself,  and 
seemed  a  sensible,  energetic  sort  of  person, 
very  High  Church  in  his  views  ;  and  with 
a  distinct  appreciation  of  the  moral,  intel- 
lectual, and  social  advance  made  by  the 
woman  of  the  Victorian  era." 

"  Well  done,  Octavia  !  But  if  the  shepherd 
is  to  be  allowed  within  the  precincts  of  the 
dovecote,  why  not  the  farmer  ?  Incon- 
sistency is  inconsistency,  Betsy  Prig,  all 
the  world  over,  and  these  nice  distinctions 
savour  of  that  vice.  Why  not  the  farmer  ?  " 


132 


XX 

SAHARA  stood  in  harness  before  the  front 
garden  gate.  Lady  Jane  Pegram  occupied 
the  driver's  seat  in  the  roomy  market  cart 
— capable  of  being  turned  into  a  covered 
vehicle  in  rainy  weather.  Rosevear  Trelaw- 
ney  sat  beside  her,  and  Fanny  Dormer,  in 
company  with  certain  baskets  and  trowels, 
was  comfortably  stowed  away  at  the 
back. 

It  was  ever  a  proud  moment  for  the  com- 
munity, the  remaining  members  of  which  had 
assembled  on  the  gate  bridge  to  watch  the 
start,  when  the  intrepid  lady  assumed  the 
reins,  and  bade  Sahara — their  own  Sahara 
— proceed  upon  his  way. 

"  O,  dear  !  Is  anything  wrong  ?  "  cried 
Clara  Currey,  as  the  equipage,  after  moving  a 
little  way,  came  to  a  dead  halt. 

"  Nothing,"  shouted  Fanny  Dormer. 
"  Only  we  have  forgotten  Maria  Mulcher, 

133 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

and  she  is  lying  on  the  garden  bench,  by 
the  barberry  tree,  blistering  in  the  sun.  Run 
and  fetch  her,  there's  a  dear." 

Clara  willingly  performed  the  errand,  and 
Sahara  jogged  away  in  the  interests  of  the 
newly-established  fernery.  Then  Marjory 
Dormer  went  back  to  the  greenhouse  to 
pinch  back  young  cucumbers  and  dose  green- 
fly with  tobacco  fumes,  while  Octavia  Wall 
arrived  with  a  syringe  and  a  bucketful  of 
Carberry's  Compound-and-water,  repaired  to 
the  orchard,  and  resumed  target  practice,  at 
short  range,  upon  apple-trees  exhibiting 
symptoms  of  blight. 

"  I  have  tied  up  dahlias  till  my  back 
aches,"  said  Clara,  wearily,  "  and  murdered 
earwigs  until  my  whole  being  revolts  from 
slaughter.  Why  shouldn't  I  take  a  holiday 
as  well  as  Lady  Jane  ?  " 

She  got  her  hat  and  gloves,  put  on  the 
former  without  casting  a  single  glance  at 
the  looking-glass,  and  was  soon  well  on  her 
way  to  Porthporra.  The  road  descended 
into  a  gorge,  the  long-dried  channel  of  some 
tremendous  watercourse.  Cattle  and  sheep 
grazed  on  the  steep  green  slopes  that  rose 
on  either  hand — high  above  a  lofty  grey- 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

brown  peak  a  kite  hung  motionless  on  the  still, 
hot  air. 

The  knitting  women  seated  on  the  cottage 
thresholds  looked  up  from  their  work  to  give 
the  little  creature  with  the  soft  grey  eyes 
and  the  sweet  shy  smile  a  pleasant  greeting. 
The  noisy  groups  of  girls  gathered  before  the 
curing-sheds  made  way  for  Clara  to  pass 
by.  Porthporra  might  at  no  time  be  termed 
a  savoury  spot,  but  at  the  height  of  the 
autumn  fishery  the  combinations  of  odours 
to  be  found  in  its  narrow,  tortuous  streets, 
paved  with  cobblestones  and  hemmed  in 
with  low-roofed  irregularly-built  stone  cot- 
tages, were  as  extraordinary  as  overwhelm- 
ing. With 

Pilchards  to  right  of  her, 
Pilchards  to  left  of  her, 

children  cleaning  pilchards  at  every  gutter, 
oily  looking  cats  devouring  them  by  every 
doorstep,  boys  and  men  staggering  past  under 
the  weight  of  wicker  "  maunds  "  heaped  up 
with  pilchards,  pilchards  dangling  from 
strings  suspended  overhead,  pilchards  split 
and  peppered,  baking  in  the  sun  upon  slate 
window  sills,  and  frizzling,  split,  salted  and 
peppered  upon  hundreds  of  frying  pans, 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

Clara  gasped,  overwhelmed.  She  cast  a  wist- 
ful eye  towards  the  coastguard  point,  visible 
high  overhead.  There  was  fresh  air  to  be 
had  there,  but  then  the  return,  through  all 
this  nshiness  !  She  paused,  and  looked  about 
her  irresolutely,  half-minded  to  turn  back. 

"  Ma'am  !  " 

Clara  started  and  turned.  Huey  Lenine 
stood  before  her  with  his  yellow  curls  bare  to 
the  sun. 

"  I  ask  your  pardon,  ma'am.  'Twas 
f aether  zeed  'ee  from  th'  lower  quay,  an' 
sethee  '  Tes  one  o'  th'  ladies  from  Killi- 
garth,  en  her'm  lost  her  way.'  An  so  aw 
run  after  'ee,  on  th'  chance  es  aw  might  help 
'ee  like." 

"  O,  you  are  very  kind,"  returned  Clara, 
"  but  I  have  not  lost  my  way,  thank  you. 
I  came  out  for  a  little  fresh  air." 

"  Tes  th'  wrong  quarther  t'  come  tew 
seekin'  for  fresh  air,  Porthporra,  i'  th' 
pelchard  season,"  said  Huey  Lenine,  ex-r 
panding  his  well-cut  nostrils  in  a  confir- 
matory whiff.  "  Poor  folk  like  we  din't 
take  no  special  note  of  it,  bein'  bred  to  it 
as  we  ar',  but  tes  different  wi'  a  lady.  If 
'ee  would  care  to  take  a  course  in  th'  boat 

136 


o 


THE    KNITTING    WOMEN    LOOKED   UP   FROM    THEIR   WORK."      p.   135. 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

now,  though  our  womenfolk  dew  shun  th' 
say,  gentry  are  different !  And  aw  wid  be 
proud  to  take  'ee " 

"  To  take  me  for  a  sail  ?  "  said  Clara,  with 
brightening  eyes.  "  You  are  very  kind.  It 
would  be  delightful.  But  I  must  not  inter- 
fere with  your  work.  Perhaps " 

"  No  work,  no  work  !  "  returned  Lenine, 
eagerly.  "  Me,  an'  th'  boy,  an*  th'  boat  are 
idle  till  next  tide.  And  if  'ee  would  care, 
we  might  sail  out  a  mile  or  so  en  cast  a 
line.  I  could  promise  'ee  sport  of  some 
kind  or  another."  He  looked  eagerly  at 
Clara. 

The  temptation  was  not  to  be  resisted. 
Clara  yielded.  Huey,  with  a  bright  face,  ran 
down  the  steep,  slippery,  natural  stairway 
of  rock  that  led  to  the  nearer  quay,  springing 
like  a  chamois  from  shelf  to  shelf. 

She  leant  her  elbows  on  the  narrow  har- 
bour wall,  and  watched  him  as  he  unmoored 
his  boat  from  its  iron  ring  and  brought  it 
alongside  the  quay.  A  sturdy  urchin,  re- 
sponding to  a  stentorian  hail,  left  a  group 
of  other  lads  at  play  and  joined  in  hauling 
in  the  anchor.  Then  the  yellow  curls  and 
the  blue-eyed  sunburnt  face  reappeared  on 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

Clara's  level,  and  guided  by  the  young 
fisherman's  powerful  hand,  she  made  her 
way  down  the  perilous  stairs.  Then  strong 
arms  lifted  her  over  the  gunwale.  A  few 
moments  later  and  the  boat  crept  out  of 
the  narrow  jaws  of  the  haven.  The  creak- 
ing sweeps  were  laid  in,  foresail  and  sprit 
mainsail  bellied  with  the  first  gentle  puff 
from  the  west.  The  boy  tumbled  over  and 
took  the  helm.  Huey  swung  himself  lightly 
up  the  mast,  and  the  gaff-topsail  shook  out 
its  red  folds  with  a  sound  like  the  cracking 
of  a  drover's  whip. 

"  Now  she'll  show  some  pace."  He 
dropped  down  beside  Clara,  and  the  boy 
went  forward  again.  "  Th'  air  be  fresh 
enough  out  here,  ma'am,  'int  'en  ?  " 

"It  is  lovely,"  responded  Clara,  with  a 
rapturous  sigh. 

The  haven,  with  its  whitewashed  cottages, 
jutting  quays,  and  frowning  bastions  of 
sombre  slate,  had  sunk  from  view  behind 
the  sharply  outlined  masses  of  the  Peak. 
On  the  left  hand  a  precipitous  sweep  of 
coastland,  indented  with  little  bays,  masked 
the  outgate  of  the  tidal  river.  Rame  Head 
brooded  a  clear  blue  mass  upon  the  sea-line, 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

while  on  the  northern  horizon,  hidden  behind 
a  vale  of  haze,  the  Lizard  might  be  guessed 
at. 

"  Tis  a  fair  day,  wi'  little  wind  an'  a 
smooth  sea,  fit  for  a  lady's  sailing.  But, 
ma'am,  aw  have  seen  a  tide  ragin'  afore  a 
south-east  gale  that  overtopped  th'  Peak, 
an'  leapt  upon  the  haven  an'  crunched  th' 
boats  an'  housen  as  a  dog  wid  crunch  a 
bone.  'Twas  afore  they  built  th'  new  quay, 
an'  aw  was  but  a  littl'  fella  i'  petticose,  but 
aw  mind  it  as  clear  as  if  't  happened  yester- 
day. Will  'ee  please  to  cast  a  line,  ma'am  ? 
There  be  plenty  fish  just  here.  Have  us  a 
lash,  Teddy,  ma  son  ?  " 

"  Ay,"  responded  Teddy. 

"  A  lash  is  a  bait,  ma'am,"  Huey  explained. 
The  man  and  boy  lowered  sail  expeditiously, 
the  anchor  splashed  overboard  with  a  sudden 
clanking,  and  a  tightening  drag  showed  that 
it  held  fast. 

Clara  watched  her  host  interestedly  as  he 
got  out  the  lead-lines,  and,  extracting  some 
hooks  from  a  broken  teacup,  whipped  them 
on  with  dexterous  neatness.  Then  he  reached 
a  pilchard  from  a  tin  bucket  amongst  the 
ballast- weights,  and,  opening  his  clasp  knife, 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

sliced  away  a  neat  strip  of  the  tough  silvery 
skin  just  above  the  tail. 

"  O  ! "  cried  Clara,  in  horror.  The  un- 
fortunate pilchard  had  wriggled.  Huey 
dropped  it  as  if  it  had  burnt  his  ringers, 
and  stared  at  the  young  lady  in  astonish- 
ment. 

"  Please  ?  " 

"  It  is  alive.  Pray,  pray,  put  the  poor 
thing  out  of  its  misery,"  Clara  begged, 
shutting  her  eyes  tightly. 

"  Dear  heart,  to  think  o'  that  now !  " 
ejaculated  Huey.  He  caught  up  the  fish, 
and  stunned  it  with  a  couple  of  blows  upon 
the  thwart.  "  Rough  fellas  like  we  think 
lettle  o'  sich  things,  ma'am,"  he  said  apolo- 
getically. "If  us  wer'  t'  kill  ivery  fish  us 
takes  by  th'  line  or  th'  drift  us  widn't  make 
much  of  a  livin',  aw  reckon  !  " 

"  Perhaps  not.  But  there  are  some 
things "  Clara  shuddered.  "  For  in- 
stance, I  passed  through  the  kitchen  the 
other  day  while  Aunt  Hosanna  was  boiling 
a  lobster — alive  !  And  it  poked  the  lid  of 
the  saucepan  up,  and  put  out  its  head ;  I 
shall  never  forget  the  expression  of  its  face." 
She  shut  her  eyes  again.  "  It  was  dread- 

140 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

ful — dreadful !  I  shall  never  eat  lobster 
again.  And  yet  Aunt  Hosanna  is  a  good, 
kind  woman,  and  reads  her  Bible  regu- 
larly." 

"  Ay,  ma'am,  sh'  does  so.  But  aw  doubt 
whether  ther'  be  any  guidin'  word  i'  th' 
Testament  as  to  dealin'  wi'  fish  and  shelly 
sea- trade.  Simple  folk  needs  a  plain  chart 
ter  steer  by,  an'  if  there  wer'  sich  a  text 
as  '  Th'  marciful  man  es  marciful  tew  hes 
lobster/  or  such,  us'ud  know  how  t'  go  vore. 
But  ther'  bint  no  sich  a  word.  Ee  see, 
ma'am,  th'  Master  en  His  disciples  they  was 
fishermen  same  as  we  be,  en  they  knawed 
that  pelchard  '11  take  none  but  fresh  bait, 
en  that  a  dead-biled  lobster  niver  ates  nigh 
so  well  as  a  live-biled  'un.  Or  'em  wid  ha' 
laid  down  commandments  like,  en  spiled 
trade." 

Clara  was  stricken  dumb  by  this  outburst 
of  original  theology. 

"  So,  ma'am,"  Huey  went  on  in  a  deep 
melodious  monotone,  casting  the  baited  lines 
overboard,  and  watching  the  output  with 
an  experienced  eye ;  "  th'  lobsters  en  the 
pelchards  mun  put  up  wi'  ther  share  o' 
trouble  i'  this  world.  Us  as  ketches  'em 

141 


Maids   in  a  Market  Garden 

has  enough,  what  wi'  th'  frost-bite  an' 
roomatty  pains,  en  th'  cramp  that  turns  a 
man's  joints  tew  iron  when  he've  bin  castin' 
for  eight  or  ten  hours  maybe,  on  a  could 
winter's  day,  wi'  nought  but  th'  bitter  gale 
in  s' teeth,  en  the  black  conger  takin'  th' 
hukes  so  fast  as  him  can  tie  'em  on.  Or  th' 
dogs  sleep  i'  the  bottom  o'  the  boat,  wi'  a 
tarpaulin  for  all  coverin',  en  the  stars  win  kin' 
overhead,  as  th'  big  steamers  bears  down 
on  us  out  o'  the  darkness,  for  all  the  world  as 
if  'em  wer'  makin'  game  o'  the  little  value  o' 
a  poor  man's  life." 

"  But  you  carry  lights,  and  so  do  the 
steamers,  and  there  are  so  few  accidents." 

"  Sa  few  as  gets  into  the  papers,  ma'am. 
I  know  a  man — tes  a  silly  ould  creature 
th'  children  mocks  i'  Porthporra  streets  tew 
day.  But  not  long  agone  him  had  his 
senses,  and  wer'  a  good  fisherman  an' 
master  o'  a  smart  boat.  'Twere  some  bigger 
than  this — him  had  a  man  tew  help  'n  so 
well  as  th'  boy — hes  own  lad,  as  was  boun' 
'prentice  tew  him.  One  night — likely  en 
fair,  in  a  calm  say  en  no  fog — th'  man  es 
wer'  forward  shouts  '  Steamer,  ahoy  !  '  She 
wer'  close  upon  'em.  '  God !  '  cries  the 

142 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

master,  '  don't  'em  see  th'  lights  ?  '  Hailed 
agen,  'em  did,  but  the  steamer  kept  on  her 
course,  an'  cut  th'  boat  en  tew.  Th'  man  as 
wer'  forward,  him  was  struck  en  stunned, 
CD  went  down  like  lead.  But  th'  master, 
him  wer'  a  strong  man,  en  wi'  his  little  lad 
hangin'  round  his  neck,  him  made  a  leap  like 
for  the  steamer's  bow  chains,  en  got  hould 
en  clambered  up.  Ma'am,  them  aboard  ham- 
mered hes  knuckles  wi'  a  belayin'  pin  tew 
force  him  tew  let  go,  en  th'  cap'n  bid  him 
drown  en  be  damned.  But  he  wer'  desp'rate, 
en  fowt  for  his  lad's  life  an'  his  own.  An' 
as  in  spite  of  'em  all,  him  wer'  get  ten  over 
th'  side,  th'  arms  about  his  neck  were  loosed, 
an'  the  child  screamed  en  fell  away  into  the 
blackness.  An'  my  uncle — 'twas  my  mother's 
own  brother — leapt  in  among  they  murderers 
en  tould  'em  what  'em  had  done,  en  that 
some  should  hang  for  't.  'Em  might  ha' 
flung  he  overboard,  but  they  dared  not  lay 
a  hand  on  him.  So  him  got  safe  ashore 
and  told  his  story,  en  there  was  inquiry 
made,  but  'twas  one  man's  word  against 
many — ther'  wer'  no  justice  for  he.  An' 
what  with  grievin' — for  th'  wife  died  in  her 
trouble  wi'  th'  news  of  her  lad's  loss — an' 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

what  wi'  broodin'  over  his  wrongs,  an*  what  wi' 
poverty — for  him  had  lost  all  him  had, 
every  pennord — he  got  what  like  him  be 
now.  You'm  got  a  fish  on  your  line, 
ma'am." 

"  How  can  you  tell  ?  " 

"  Poise  the  line  so,  between  your  fingers, 
an  'ee'll  feel  a  kin'  o'  tremble  like.  Tes  a 
bream,  sure  enough.  Teddy  ha'  got  one 
already,  hav'nt  'ee,  ma  son  ?  " 

"  Tew,"  said  the  stolid  Teddy,  dexter- 
ously whisking  two  plump,  silvery  bodies  out 
of  their  natural  element,  and  relieving  them 
of  the  treacherous  morsels  which  they  had 
weakly  bolted,  with  rough  unceremonious- 
ness. 

"  O,  O !  "  screamed  Clara,  thoroughly 
roused,  as  something  red  and  pink  and  golden 
came  wriggling  upwards  through  the  trans- 
lucent green  depths  under  the  lugger's  stern, 
and  a  gasping  gurnard  flopped  and  quivered 
on  the  rough  brown  planks.  Huey  slapped 
his  leg  ecstatically,  and  shouted  with 
laughter,  and  even  the  sober  Teddy  vouch- 
safed to  chuckle. 

"  Aw  dew  just  glory  in  seein'  'ee.  Wi' 
your  eyes  as  bright  as  di'monds,  an'  your 

144 


"POISE   THE    LINE   SO,    BETWEEN    YOUR    FINGERS."      /.    144. 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

little  hand  like  a  snowflake  on  th'  line. 
An'  such  a  one  as  'ee  be  to  bide  th'  rowliri'. 
Why,  there's  not  a  woman  i'  Porthporra 
but  wid  ha'  been  layin'  along  th'  ballast  by 
now,  cravin'  ter  be  put  ashore.  Ter'ble 
mis'ble  sailors  'em  be,  one  an'  all.  Tis 
a  conger  'ee  have  there,  ma'am — a  tough 
customer." 

Huey  threw  down  his  own  line  and  stepped 
to  the  rescue.  There  was  a  heavy  strain  on 
the  line,  which  Clara  had  incautiously  twined 
about  her  wrist.  The  brown  strong  hands 
covered  the  little  white  ones  a  moment,  as 
they  had  done  on  the  occasion  of  Octavia's 
accident  a  little  while  before.  Both  re- 
membered. 

"  I  think  I  will  ask  you  to  land  me  now, 
please,"  said  Clara,  when  the  excitement 
attendant  on  the  capture  of  the  conger  had 
subsided.  "  I  may  be  missed  at  home,  and 
I  think  it  is  getting  a  little  cold,  cold  and — 
dark."  She  shivered. 

The  bright  day  had  become  suddenly  over- 
cast, and  the  boat  had  begun  to  plunge  at 
her  cable  as  the  wind  shifted  to  the  south- 
west. The  three  miles  that  lay  between  the 
lugger  and  the  haven  were  covered  almost  in 

145  10 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

silence.     When  Clara  had  spoken  it  was  to 
ask  the  name  of  the  boat. 

"  The  Joan,"  Huey  had  answered. 

"  '  The  Joan  '  !  If  I  had  a  boat  I  think 
I  should  christen  her  '  The  Pisky,'  "  Clara 
said  listlessly. 

"  Would  'ee,  ma'am  ?  "  Huey  returned 
eagerly.  '  Tes  a  proper  name,  sure  enough. 
Aw'll  paint  the  other  out  to-morrow,  an* 
th'  '  Pisky  '  shall  stand  in  its  stead." 

"  Oh  !  no,  no,"  Clara  protested,  vaguely 
startled,  she  could  not  tell  why. 

"  There's  the  Pisky's  Cove,  now."  Huey 
pointed  to  a  sheltered  little  nook  lying 
eastward  of  Porthporra,  walled  in  by  brake- 
fringed  cliffs,  and  floored  with  fine  grey 
sands,  over  which  a  little  rivulet  rippled 
on  its  way  to  the  sea.  "  'Twas  there  the 
piskies  used  to  gather  i'  the  old  times,  and 
dance,  an'  veast,  an'  drink  red  wine  out  o' 
cups  o'  crystal.  Ther's  a  story  tellin'  of  a 
man — a  fisher-lad  like  me — es  got  hould  o' 
one  o'  ther  caps  en  th'  fairies  gev  him  gould 
en  jewels  en  gay  clothes,  en  what'n  all, 
t'  get  it  back  agen."  He  set  his  teeth  hard 
and  bent  his  brows  as  the  lugger  lay  on 
the  homeward  tack  and  the  creaking  boom 

146 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

shifted  over.  "  Ther'  be  no  piskies  nowa- 
days, folks  say,  but  if  so  be  es  one  wer' 
left,  en  aw'  could  once  get  a  grip  o'  he,  aw 
wud  niver  latt  him  free,"  said  Huey  Lenine, 
"  till  aw  had  ma  heart's  desire." 

"  And  what  is  your  heart's  desire  ? " 
questioned  Clara,  incautiously.  "  I  beg  your 
pardon !  I  ought  not  to  have  asked !  " 
She  crimsoned  as  she  spoke  from  brow  to 
throat.  But  Huey  Lenine  gave  her  her 
answer. 

"  To  be  a  gentleman  !  " 


M7 


XXI 

FANNY  DORMER,  coming  cautiously  down- 
stairs at  five  of  the  clock  upon  a  bright  Oc- 
tober morning,  opened  the  porch-door — 
outside  which  three  pensioned  cats  sat 
waiting  for  eleemosynary  scraps  and  saucers 
of  milk — and  stepped  into  the  dewy  garden. 

Early  as  she  was,  someone  had  been  before 
her.  There  were  ruthless  gaps  apparent  in 
a  row  of  promising  young  spinach-plants, 
and  the  diminution  perceptible  amongst  the 
ranks  of  her  cherished  cauliflowers  went  to 
the  heart  of  the  gardener.  She  visited  a 
roughly-erected  shed,  where  carrots,  pota- 
toes, onions,  and  German  sausage-like  roots 
of  beet  were  modestly  reposing  upon  a  layer 
of  clean  wheat-straw.  The  unpadlocked  door 
stood  ajar — the  traces  of  the  midnight 
marauder  were  only  too  plainly  visible. 
Fanny's  indignation  broke  into  speech. 

"  Wretch !  "  She  shook  her  fist  at  an 
148 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

invisible  personality.  "  If  I  could  only  catch 
you,  whoever  you  are,  I'd " 

She  frowned  darkly,  and  turned  with 
disdain  upon  a  scarecrow,  the  work  of  her 
own  hands,  and  the  pride  of  her  heart  when 
first  erected.  It  was  attired  (much  to  the 
scandalisation  of  Lady  Jane)  in  a  pair  of 
ancient  corduroys,  once  the  property  of 
Miller  Job,  and  a  long-sleeved  waistcoat  of 
tattered  fustian.  Its  deerstalker  hat  had 
once  adorned  the  intellectual  brows  of 
Octavia  Wall,  and  the  stick  it  levelled  gun- 
wise,  while  imposing  upon  the  credulity  of 
the  rabbit  tribe,  had  proved  inadequate  to 
restrain  the  predatory  invasions  of  the 
wearer  of  the  enormous  pair  of  hobnailed 
boots,  whose  clumsy  impressions  were  deeply 
marked  in  the  rich  light  soil  of  beds  and 
borders. 

"If  you  could  speak,  you'd  be  ot  some 
use,"  apostrophised  Fanny,  shaking  her  head 
at  the  scarecrow.  "  As  it  is  " — she  laid  im- 
perious hands  upon  the  forlorn  simulacrum, 
dragged  it  away,  and  cast  it  into  a  disused 
summer-house,  contemptuously. 

The  summer-house  had  a  bench,  Aspinalled 
to  a  cheering  and  suggestive  pea-greenness, 

149 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

whereon  lay  a  mildewed  copy  of  Maria 
Mulcher's  immortal  work  on  gardening,  and 
a  bouquet  of  newly-cut  hothouse  flowers. 
The  book  bore  Rosevear's  initials  scribbled 
on  the  flyleaf ;  to  the  bouquet  was  attached 
a  slip  of  paper,  directed  to  Miss  Trelawney. 
At  sight  of  it,  Fanny's  light  grey  eyes 
twinkled  mischievously. 

"  The  sixth  within  a  fortnight,"  she 
mused.  "  If  love  is,  as  some  people  say,  a 
fever,  The  Usurper  certainly  has  got  it 
badly.  Poor  young  man  !  Can  it  be  that 
he  carries  away  our  cabbages  and  beets  as 
tender  mementoes  ?  But  no !  There  are 
two  secret  trespassers  upon  the  Killigarth 
demesne.  One  comes  for  love,  and  the 
other  for  lucre.  And  both  their  little  games 
have  been  found  out  by  Fanny  Dormer,  and 
she  means  to  speed  the  one  and  spoil  the 
other — or  know  the  reason  why." 

She  produced  a  pencil  as  she  spoke,  and 
tearing  a  leaf  from  her  pocket  book,  inscribed 
on  it  in  bashful  lead  characters  :  "So  many 
thanks  for  the  beautiful  flowers." 

"  As  well  be  hung  for  a  sheep  as  a  lamb," 
she  said,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  ap- 
pending the  initials  "  R.  T."  to  the  docu- 

150 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

ment.  Then  she  rolled  up  a  small  pebble 
in  it,  and  threw  it  over  the  garden-hedge, 
and  fled,  at  the  barking  of  a  dog,  and  the 
sound  of  masculine  footsteps  in  the  lane 
below.  But  as  the  footsteps  retreated, 
Fanny  emerged  from  her  concealment,  and 
peeping  through  a  convenient  cranny  in  the 
hedge,  was  rewarded  with  the  back  view 
of  a  stalwart  young  gentleman  in  a  shooting 
suit  of  shabby  velveteen,  who  was  striding 
very  fast  down  the  lane,  followed  by  a  red 
setter.  Before  he  vanished  from  sight  he 
turned  and  looked  back,  long  and  lingeringly, 
and  Fanny  giggled  as  he  kissed  a  crumpled 
scrap  of  paper  and  thrust  it  in  his  breast. 
She  laughed  outright  later  as  she  dug  a 
hole  and  buried  The  Usurper's  tribute — not 
without  a  sigh  of  regret — under  a  gooseberry 
bush,  and  then  went  back  to  breakfast. 

Lady  Jane  proposed,  after  this  meal,  that 
they  should  all  go  down  to  the  cellar,  and 
look  at  the  cider.  For,  after  a  recipe  pro- 
vided by  the  infallible  Maria  Mulcher,  and 
with  the  loan  of  a  circular  stone  trough  from 
Miller  Job,  and  a  couple  of  mighty  pestles 
to  correspond,  a  certain  portion  of  the 
moderate  orchard  yield  had  been  converted, 

151 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

by  the  united  efforts  of  the  community,  into 
a  kind  of  apple-poultice,  which,  after  an 
anxious  and  adhesive  period  of  squeezing, 
draining,  and  straining,  had  been  poured 
into  three  tubs  of  handsome  size,  and  placed 
in  the  cellar  to  await  its  conversion  into  the 
above-mentioned  beverage. 

It  was  a  noble  sight  when  Lady  Jane, 
divested  of  her  cuffs,  girded  with  an  apron, 
and  armed  with  a  Brobdingnagian  wooden 
ladle,  went  from  receptacle  to  receptacle 
stirring  and  skimming  the  desultory  and 
intrusive  pip  from  the  frothy  surface  of 
the  weird  compound. 

"  How  it  bubbles  !  "  said  Marjory,  doubt- 
fully, "  and  what  a  curious  crackling  sound  !  " 
She  bent  an  inquiring  ear  to  the  side  of  a 
tub,  and  looked  up  with  an  eye  full  of  appre- 
hension. "  Can't  be  anything  wrong,  can 
there  ?  " 

"  '  CIDER.  Preparation  of.  This  enliven- 
ing and  agreeable  beverage  was  known  to 
the  Ancients.  C.  contains  from  5j  to  9 
per  cent,  of  alcohol,  and  is  intoxicating 
when  drunk  in  quantity.'  ' 

"  In  what  quantity  ?  But  of  course  Maria 
will  not  say." 

152 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  '  The  juice  having  been  separated  from 
the  pulp,  and  the  process  of  fermentation 
having  been  completed,  draw  off  the  liquid 
from  the  sediment,  bottle,  and  await  the 
result.'  " 

"  What  a  Delphic  utterance.  I  wonder 
whether  it  is  ready  for  bottling  now  ? " 
Clara  Currey  questioned,  anxiously. 

Each  tasted  the  muddy  sub-acid  liquid 
solemnly  in  turn,  and  decided  that  it 
was. 

The  landlord  of  the  Porthporra  alehouse, 
which  establishment  boasted  the  appro- 
priate sign  of  "  The  Three  Pilchards,"  was 
consulted,  and  supplied  six  dozen  bottles  at 
a  reasonable  price.  And  when  at  the  close 
of  an  arduous  morning's  labour  Lady  Jane 
corked  and  wired  the  seventy-second  half- 
pint,  as  Clara  and  Marjory  arranged  the 
others  in  neat  battalions  upon  the  cellar 
shelves,  it  was  generally  felt  that  something 
had  been  achieved. 

But  thirty-six  hours  later  Marjory  Dormer 
woke  up  in  the  middle  of  a  dream  of  a 
gorgeous  pyrotechnic  display  at  the  Crystal 
Palace.  "  Pop-pop  !  pop-pop-pop  !  poppa- 
pop  !  poppapoppapoppapopp-pop  ! "  Those 

i53 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

were  the  rockets  and  squibs.  "  Bang ! 
BANG  !  !  "  That  was  the  heavy  set-piece. 

"  Fanny  !  " 

She  clutched  the  sleeper's  arm. 

"  Why  did  you  wake  me  ? "  grumbled 
Fanny,  "  I  was  dreaming  the  last  R.H.A. 
ball  at  Woolwich  all  over  again.  Captain 
Cracknell — you  know  the  man  with  the 
lovely  eyelashes — had  just  taken  me  into 
supper,  and  the  band  was  playing,  and  the 
champagne  corks  were  popping,  like  !  "  she 
started,  "  Why  I  can  hear  them  now.  It 
can't  be !  " 

She  put  on  her  dressing-gown  hurriedly, 
and  knocked  at  Lady  Jane's  door. 

"  Come  in.  Dear  me  !  "  Lady  Jane  sat 
up  alertly.  "  Is  anything  wrong  ?  You 
roused  me  from  a  curious  dream.  The 
Liberals  and  Socialists  had  united  in  rebel- 
lion, and  were  marching  upon  Llwddllm  to 
raze  it  to  the  ground.  Papa  and  the  girls 
had  retreated  to  the  chapel  crypt,  while, 
arrayed  in  a  full  suit  of  fourteenth-century 
plate-mail,  belonging  to  one  of  our  an- 
cestors, I  was  cheering  our  retainers  on  to 
battle.  The  missiles  of  the  besiegers  rattled 
against  the  walls,  our  culverins  crashed  from 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

the  battlements."  She  stopped,  and  meet- 
ing the  foreboding  glance  of  Fanny,  sprang 
briskly  out  of  bed.  Ere  long  the  entire 
community  of  Female  Fruit  and  Flower 
Gardeners,  attired  more  or  less  airily  and 
unconventionally,  and  armed  for  the  most 
part  with  bedroom  candles — the  more  appre- 
hensive spirits  brandished  pokers — assembled 
upon  the  stairs  leading  to  the  cellar.  The 
"  pop-popping "  continued,  the  smart  ex- 
plosions recurred  at  intervals,  mingled  with 
a  good  deal  of  gurgling  and  splashing,  and 
a  dark-coloured  rivulet,  making  its  way 
under  the  cellar  door,  converted  itself  into 
a  ciderfall  down  the  three  steps  that  led  to 
it,  and  gaily  meandered  in  the  direction  of 
the  coal  hole.  There  was  nothing  to  be 
done  but  to  regret  that  Maria  Mulcher  had 
not  been  more  explicit  in  her  directions, 
and  to  go  back  to  bed. 

"  I  suppose  it  was  the  noise  of  the  bursting 
bottles  mixed  up  with  my  dreams,"  re- 
marked Octavia  to  Clara.  "  But  I  thought 
I  was  delivering  an  address  upon  the  Rights 
of  Women  at  a  very  unruly  meeting  of  East- 
end  costerwomen,  and  the  eggs  were  smash- 
ing on  the  wall  behind  me." 

i55 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  And  I  was  out  on  the  wide  sea,  miles 
away  from  shore,  in  a  fishing  boat,"  said 
little  Clara.  "  And — the  fisherman — was 
knocking  a  pilchard's  head  against  the 
thwart — rap — rap — rap — so  that  it  might 
not  feel  when  he  cut  slices  off  its  tail,  for 
bait,  you  know.  Was  it  not  kind  of  him  ?  " 

"I,"  murmured  Rosevear  Trelawney,  as 
she  stood  at  her  open  casement  and  looked 
out  into  the  moist  velvet  blackness  of  the 
night-veiled  garden,  and  listened  to  the 
impatient  babbling  of  the  sleepless  little 
trout  stream  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill — "  I 
dreamed  that  Trelawney  tottered  and  fell, 
and  buried  The  Usurper  in  the  ruins.  And 
I  leaned  on  a  mound  of  masonry,  and  heard 
him,  ever  so  far  down,  tap,  tap,  tapping  at 
the  solid  stone,  and  calling  on  me  to  dig 
him  out.  Why  should  he  call  on  me  ?  He 
is  no  more  to  me  than  the  blundering  night 
moth  that  is  trying  to  singe  its  stupid  wings 
in  my  candle/'  But  she  caught  the  moth, 
and  put  it  gently  out  of  the  window,  before 
she  extinguished  her  candle  and  musingly 
went  back  to  bed. 


156 


XXII 

A  SPIDERY,  high-bodied  gig  pulled  up  at 
Killigarth  garden-gate.  Farmer  Polwheal, 
of  Peniel,  got  down,  solidly  and  carefully, 
and  handed  the  reins  to  the  male  olive-branch 
who  accompanied  him. 

"  Don't  'ee  chuck  at  the  mare's  mouth, 
now,  Thomas,  there's  a  good  lad,"  the  parent 
said,  warningly,  as  he  led  the  animal  to 
the  roadside.  Thomas,  who  had  been  ad- 
dressed, for  once,  by  the  name  which  was 
his  special  property,  nodded,  and  bit  a 
piece  out  of  the  large  green  cooking  apple 
with  which  he  had  thoughtfully  provided 
himself,  while  the  farmer,  after  extracting 
a  huge  stack  of  dahlias  and  a  little  covered 
basket  from  under  the  gig-seat,  entered  the 
precincts  sacred  to  the  horticultural  and 
agricultural  enterprises  of  the  Limited  Lia- 
bility Company  of  Female  Fruit  and  Flower 
Gardeners. 

157 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

There  was  something  in  the  mien  and 
appearance  of  the  widower  which  boded 
much  to  an  eye  as  experienced  as  the  eye 
which  happened  to  be  looking  over  the  blind 
of  Fanny  Dormer's  bedroom  window,  as  he 
strode  bashfully  up  the  steep  garden  path. 
It  was  not  that  his  collar  was  so  preter- 
naturally  stiff  as  to  bend  his  ear-lobes  vio- 
lently outwards  and  force  the  blood  to  the 
roots  of  his  sandy  hair  and  the  brim  of  his 
new  white  hat.  It  was  not  that  his  necktie 
was  blue,  spotted  with  yellow  lozenges, 
that  his  cords  and  tops  were  new,  like  his 
sprigged  buff  waistcoat,  or  that  his  coat  was 
sporting  in  cut  and  prodigal  in  buttons,  but 
something  subtler  still.  The  crab  who  con- 
templates changing  his  shell  for  a  roomier 
habitation  bears  his  purpose  legibly  in- 
scribed upon  his  personality.  So,  too,  the 
male  human  being  who  is  secretly  bent  upon 
performing  the  acrobatic  feat  of  doubling 
himself,  matrimonially,  announces  before- 
hand, without  definite  word  of  mouth  or 
blast  of  trumpet,  his  determination. 

"  Tis  Farmer  Polwheal,  my  lady,"  said 
Joan,  appearing  before  Lady  Jane  as  she 
impartially  distributed  cracked  wheat  and 

158 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

Indian  corn  amongst  the  inhabitants  of  the 
fowl-house. 

"  For  me  ?  " 

"  He  wanted  to  see  th'  mistress,  please, 
my  lady,  en  I  tould  'un,"  said  Joan,  her 
olive  cheek  dimpling,  "  that  there  wer'  six 
of  them,  so  please,  my  lady,  him  did  ask 
for  th'  oldest,  and  said  him  'ud  make 
bould  to  step  into  th'  parlour,  none  of  the 
ladies  being  there,  while  I  wint  to  fetch 
'ee." 

Remembering  the  farmer's  ignorance  of  the 
ordinary  usages  of  good  society,  Lady  Jane 
cleared  her  brow  and  submitted  to  be 
fetched.  Farmer  Polwheal  was  standing, 
with  his  boots  planted  very  far  apart,  in  the 
middle  of  the  long  low  room,  awaiting  her, 
with  the  topmost  bristles  of  his  stiff  sandy 
hair  almost  grazing  the  beams  overhead. 
He  was  still  encumbered  with  the  mighty 
stack  of  dahlias,  and  the  little  basket  dangled 
from  one  of  the  mighty  fingers  that  were 
upholstered  in  flaring  new  dog-skin  gloves. 
At  sight  of  Lady  Jane  he  bowed,  and  broke 
into  a  gentle  perspiration. 

"  You  wished  to  see  me  ? "  hazarded 
Lady  Jane. 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

Mr.  Polwheal  coughed,  affirmatively,  be- 
hind the  dahlias,  and  grew  perceptibly 
moister.  Lady  Jane  suggested  that  he 
should  be  seated.  Mr.  Polwheal  thanked  her 
and  declined. 

"  For  happening  to  be,  ma'am,  a  man  of 
a  solid  sort  of  build,"  said  Mr.  Polwheal, 
"  I  make  a  point  of  avoiding  furniture  which 
is  not  made  to  correspond.  Basket  chairs  " 
— he  cast  a  timorous  eye  around  him — 
"  basket  chairs  especially.  It  was  a  favourite 
saying  of  my  poor  Brasilia's — I  am,  as  you 
perhaps  may  have  heard " 

"  Yes,  yes  !  "  Lady  Jane  interrupted  hur- 
riedly. 

"  That  my  appearance  in  her  best  parlour 
was  somewhat  akin  to  that  of  the  proverbial 
arrival  of  the  Bull  in  the  china  shop.  My  late 
poor  wife  was  remarkably  gifted  in  her  con- 
versation. I  would  say  that  if  she  were 
here,  my — my  lady — I  should  find  less 
difficulty  in  expressing  myself.  But  that 
her — her  presence  would  naturally  obviate 

the  purpose  with  which  I  have  ventured " 

Mr.  Polwheal  broke  down. 

"  Quite  so."  Lady  Jane  really  pitied  him 
as  he  loomed  redly  over  his  dahlias,  and 

160 


"  FARMER    POLWHEAJ.."      p.   158. 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

shifted  from  leg  to  leg.  "  You  were  saying 
that  the  object  of  your  visit " 

"  The  objects,"  said  Mr.  Polwheal,  des- 
perately. "  I  don't  deny  that  at  first  I 
may  have  put  it  in  the  singular,  secretly, 
and  in  my  own  mind,  when  I  saw  one  I 
cannot  now  particularise  by  name,  sitting 
in  my  chimney-corner  on  harvest-night.  The 
thought  darted  through  my  head  like  the — 
like  the  toothache.  But  when  the  system 
— your  system,  and  the  principles  upon 
which  your  community  is  conducted,  were 
explained  to  me  " — Oh,  Octavia,  Octavia  ! — 
"  I  confined  myself  strictly  to  the  plural." 

"  I — I  don't  comprehend  !  "  faltered  Lady 
Jane,  lost  in  a  grammatical  maze. 

"  My  state,  my  lady,  as  perhaps  you  have 
heard  before,  is  that  of  a  widower,"  resumed 
Mr.  Polwheal,  a  little  cooler  now  that  the 
inevitable  plunge  had  been  taken.  "  I  am 
well  off,  if  not  rolling  in  my  thousands ; 
and  while  my  present  young  family  are 
comfortably  provided  for — under  their  proper 
names — in  my  will,  my  second  wife — if  I 
married  again — would  have  no  reason  to 
complain  of  herself  and  her  young  family 
being  at  all  overlooked.  If  the  farmhouse 

161  II 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

is  objected  to  I  should  have  no  objection 
to  build  a  suitable  residence  upon  my 
property,  and  settle  it  satisfactorily.  A 
pianoforte  of  the  Grand  description  and  a 
pony-carriage  would  not  be  a  tax  upon 
my  means.  Nor  would  the  household 
accounts  be  interfered  with,  or  the  egg-and- 
butter  money  regarded  as  otherwise  than  a 
little  extra  for  the  purchase  of  pins  and 
other  nick-nacks ;  which  brings  me  back  to 
where  I  started." 

Merciful  heavens !  Was  the  man  going 
on  for  ever  ? 

"  I  am  a  man  with  a  natural  respect  for 
principles/'  laboriously  continued  Mr.  Pol- 
wheal,  f'and  the  leading  principle  of  your 
community,  as  it  has  been  explained  to  me 
by  one  of  its  members,  being  '  A  clear  start, 
equal  chances,  and  fair  shares  all  round,' 
I  should  be  the  last  man  going,  to  go  against 
that  principle.  Therefore,  I  would  not 
venture  to  ask  any  special  lady  by  name  to 
become  the  second  Mrs.  Polwheal,  but  beg 
that  the  proposal  may  be  considered  as  a 
general  one,  to  be  discussed  amongst  you, 
and  the  issue  decided  by  ballot,  which  might 
be  of  advantage  in  affording  everyone  an 

162 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

equal  chance,  and  in  preventing  confusion. 
Six  acceptations,"  said  Mr.  Polwheal,  mildly, 
"  being  likely  to  prove  as  embarrassing  as 
six  rejections  in  the  long  run." 

The  room  heaved  and  pitched  before  the 
dazzled  eyes  of  Lady  Jane.  She  sat  down 
abruptly  in  a  chair.  Mr.  Polwheal  had 
taken  her  breath  away,  and  when,  in  some 
measure,  she  recovered  her  composure,  she 
found  that  he  had  taken  his  leave.  But  six 
bunches  of  dahlias  lay  upon  the  table,  the 
mystery  of  Mr.  Polwheal' s  horticultural  hay- 
stack being  thus  revealed,  and  six  neat  little 
tins  of  clotted  cream  had  been  ranged  in 
front  of  these  floral  tributes  by  the  same 
comprehensive  wooer. 


163  TI* 


XXIII 

"  THE  Female  Fruit  and  Flower  Gardeners 
of  Killigarth  Farm  present  their  united  com- 
pliments to  Joshua  Polwheal,  Esq.,  of  Peniel, 
and  whilst  deeply  sensible  of  the  honour 
conferred  upon  them,  collectively  and  indi- 
vidually, by  his  proposal,  beg  to  inform  him 
that  circumstances  over  which  they  have 
absolute  control  render  it  impossible  to 
entertain  the  same. 


(Signed)  JANE  PEGRAM    L  j  G  } 

ROSEVEAR  TRELAWNEY. 
CLARA  CURREY. 
OCTAVIA  J.  WALL. 
MARJORY  DORMER." 
"  Come,  Fan,  we  are  waiting  for  you." 
Fanny  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  looked 
askance  out  of  the  corners  of  her  light  grey 
eyes. 

"  So  you  are  bent  on  crushing  the  poor 
man  altogether.     In  common  mercy  I  ought 

164 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

to  refrain  from  adding  my  weight  to  the 
blow.  Six  rejections  in  a  lump  !  It  is 
awful." 

"  As  you  please,"  said  Octavia,  launching 
a  double-shafted  glearn  of  sarcasm  from  her 
shining  spectacles.  "  Perhaps  we  had  better 
add  a  postscript,  or  rider,  to  the  effect  that 
one  of  our  number,  Miss  Fanny  Dormer 
to  wit,  has  refrained  from  joining  in  the 
general  negative,  and  wishes  it  to  be  under- 
stood that  she  is  open  to  further  negotia- 
tions." 

"  You  need  not  trouble,"  returned  Fanny, 
flushing  pink.  "Sign  for  me,  Marjory,  my 
child,  if  you  will.  It  is  legal  in  the  case  of 
twins,  I  believe,  and  I  am  going  down  to 
the  stables,"  Fanny  ended. 

Rosevear  Trelawney  turned  a  meaning 
look  upon  her. 

"  You  really  intend  to  ride  to  the  meet 
to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  Cub-hunting  is  not  a  wild 
and  reckless  form  of  sport,  but  it  is  better 
than  nothing.  I  have  got  a  habit  still 
decent,  and  my  hat  is  not  so  seedy  when  you 
look  at  it  from  a  proper  distance.  The 
mount  might  be  better,  I  think,  but  Sahara 

165 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

— even  Sahara  is  preferable  to  Shank's 
mare.  And  if  I  break  his  knees/'  said 
Fanny  decisively,  '  I  will  pay  for  them, 
that's  all."  She  nodded  to  the  community, 
and  went  away  to  order  the  noble  animal 
an  extra  feed  of  oats. 

"  Though  sacksful  would  not  infuse  one 
grain  more  of  spirit  into  him,"  she  remarked, 
with  some  bitterness,  upon  the  following 
morning,  when  Mr.  Pengwillian's  late  pro- 
perty was  led  to  the  door. 

"  Does  not  he  look  as  if  he  knew  that 
saddle  was  a  borrowed  one,  and  that  the 
other  horses  will  turn  up  their  noses  at 
him  as  a  miserable  outsider  !  Sahara  has 
no  proper  pride.  I  hate  that  Uriah  Keep- 
like  spirit  of  humility — even  in  a  brute." 

She  mounted,  with  Miller  Job's  assistance, 
and  cantered  away. 

"  I  want  to  consult  you,  Rosevear,"  said 
Lady  Jane,  as  Miss  Trelawney  re-entered 
the  house.  "  There  is  a  very  good  garden 
at  Trelawney,  is  there  not  ?  " 

"  I  have  always  believed  so.  The  fruit, 
hothouse  flowers,  and  vegetables  used  to  be 
magnificent  in  my  father's  time,  and  I  have 
heard  that  they  maintain  their  reputation. 

166 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

Indeed,  all  the  first  prizes  at  the  Pencarrick 
Horticultural  Show  this  year  were  carried 
off  by  Mr.  Vosper's  head  gardener." 

"  Then  why  do  they  require  so  much  from 
us  ?  The  head  bailiff  drove  over  here  some 
weeks  ago,  and  begged  to  open  a  deposit 
account.  He  paid  thirty  pounds  in  advance, 
and  since  then  every  flower,  every  vegetable 
that  we  do  not  require  for  home  use  has  been 
sent  to  Trelawney ;  and  to-day  I  have 
received  a  letter  asking  for  more  cauli- 
flowers. They  can't  sell  them  again — it  is 
impossible  that  they  can  eat  them.  I  con- 
fess myself  at  a  loss  to  understand  the  object 
of  this  enthusiastic  patronage." 

"  Patronage  !  " 

Rosevear  drew  her  lithe,  tall  figure  to  its 
utmost  height,  and  transfixed  the  astonished 
Lady  Jane  with  a  look  of  burning  indig- 
nation. 

"  Patronage ;  I  see — I  see  it  all.  Oh, 
Lady  Jane — if  you  have  any  regard  for  me — 
any  pity " 

"  My  dear  ?  " 

"  Send  Mr.  Vosper  back  his  money ! 
decline  to  supply  him,  upon  this  insultingly 
transparent  pretext,  with  another  bunch  of 

167 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

chrysanthemums — another  couple  of  cucum- 
bers— another  single  cauliflower.  It  is — oh  ! 
it  is  out  of  pity  for  me — me,  a  Trelawney, 
reduced  to  earn  my  bread  by  the  labour  of 
my  hands,  that  this  '  patronage '  is  ex- 
tended. Do  you  not  see  ?  " 

'  There  may  be  something  in  what  you 
say.  Indeed,  I  am  almost  certain,  now  I 
begin  to  think,  that  the  head  bailiff  men- 
tioned you  by  name  when  he  first  called  to 
open  the  account  with  our  company.  In- 
deed " — Lady  Jane  was  becoming  alarmingly 
wide  awake — "  he  asked  which  department 
of  garden  labour  engrossed  your  services 
most  particularly  ;  and  upon  my  replying 
the  vegetable  beds,  immediately  began  to 
order  spinach  and  cauliflowers.  H'm  !  Yes, 
I  think  there  is  certainly  something  in  what 
you  say.  And  do  you  wish  me  to  refund 
the  money,  and  reject  further  custom  ? 
I  appreciate  your  spirit,  but  business  is 
business,  and  I  cannot  see  why  we  should 
insist  upon  making  Mr.  Vosper  a  free  gift  of 
several  market-cartloads  of  garden  produce." 

"  Deal  with  the  matter  as  you  will,  dear 
Lady  Jane ;  only  let  it  be  settled  somehow." 

"  I  might  convey  the  compliments  of  the 
168 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

company  in  .1  coldly-expressed  note,  and 
intimate  that  the  estate  is  no  longer  capable 
of  responding  to  the  drain  upon  it,  especially 
in  the  article  of  cauliflowers.  We  can  dis- 
pose of  them  instead  to  the  Plymouth  dealer 
who  wrote  to  me  some  time  ago,  or  to  the 
Truro  greengrocer.  The  letter  of  the  last- 
named  person  has  a  familiar  ring  about  it — 
something  in  the  turning  of  the  sentences — 
as  if  I  had  corresponded  with  the  writer 
before,  and  yet  it  is  quite  certain  that  I  have 
never  done  so." 

She  handed  the  letter  to  Rosevear.  It 
ran  as  follows  : 

Integrity  Mount,  Truro,  October  10. 

DEAF  MADAM, — In  reply  to  your  advertisement,  I 
may  state  that,  being  in  the  general  green-dealing  line, 
and  anxious  to  establish  a  wider  connection,  I  am 
prepared  to  take  as  much  of  the  garden  and  farm 
produce  of  the  Killigarth  Limited  Liability  Company 
of  Female  Fruit  and  Flower  Gardeners  as  I  can  get. 

I  remain,  madam 

(in  the  hope  that,  D.V.,  our  business  connection  may 
be  a  profitable  one), 

JOSHUA  PETHERWICK, 

Teetotal  Greengrocer. 

P.S. — Kindly  direct  all  hampers,  invoices,  &c.,  to 
above  address. 

"  It  seems  satisfactory  enough/' 
169 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  Mr.  Petherwick  writes  like  a  respectable 
person,  and  there  is  a  large  market  at  Traro. 
This  may  lead  to  good  things." 

Hopeful  Lady  Jane  ! 

Octavia  broke  in  upon  the  colloquy.  She, 
too,  had  a  word  in  private  to  say  to  Rosevear. 

"  I  am  not  given  to  apprehensions  and 
alarms,  as  you  know,"  she  said,  drawing 
|Vtiss  Trelawney  aside  ;  "  but  I  am  getting 
really  anxious  about  Clara.  She  is  dread- 
fully changed  of  late,  loses  flesh  and  spirits, 
and  goes  about  looking  as  white  as  a  little 
ghost.  There !  I  am  the  last  woman  in 
the  world  to  speak  seriously  of  ghosts,  but 
the  child  has  had  a  shock,  there  is  no  deny- 
ing it." 

She  shook  her  head  with  such  infinite 
meaning,  and  her  spectacles  gleamed  so 
mysteriously,  that  Rosevear  looked  at  her 
in  surprise. 

"  Clara  is  the  soul  of  honour  and  sin- 
cerity," went  on  Octavia,  "  and  a  statement 
which  would  be  more  than  doubtful  from 
the  lips  of  nineteen  girls  out  of  twenty  may 
be  credited  as  coming  from  hers.  She  only 
confided  in  me  fully  last  night,  and  I  con- 
fess— though  I  have  seen  a  Mahatma's 

170 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

cocked-hat  note  flutter  down  from  the  ceiling 
with  cold  incredulity,  and  a  jam  tart  mate- 
rialised on  to  a  china  plate  has  failed  to 
awaken  one  responsive  chord  to  a  unani- 
mously expressed  belief  in  Astral  Force — 
that  there  appears  to  be  something  odd  about 
this  !  " 

"  My  dear  Octavia  !     Odd  about  what  ?  * 

"  About  her  meeting  a  Figure,  draped  in 
white,  in  the  garden  on  several  successive 
nights.  She  has  taken  lately  to  wandering 
about  alone  in  the  starlight  while  we  are 
reading  or  working  in  here." 

"  A  figure  draped  in  white  ?  What  kind 
of  a  figure  ?  " 

"  A  female  figure,  Clara  thinks.  My  dear 
girl,  how  pale  you  are.  Let  me  get  you 
some  sal  volatile." 

"  No,  no.     I  must  hear  about  this." 

"  There  is  no  more  to  tell.  She  has  seen 
it  three  times  altogether ;  once  in  the 
orchard,  twice  in  the  garden.  It  seems  to 
glide  from  place  to  place  with  a  halting, 
hobbling,  kind  of  a  gait." 

Rosevear  uttered  a  kind  of  groan. 

"  And  Clara  declares  that  on  her  approach- 
ing it  it  has  vanished  through  the  hedge. 

171 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

And  that  she  has  heard  the  sound  of  wheels 
rolling  away,  as  though  some  conveyance- 
fancy  a  ghost  keeping  a  carriage  ! — had  been 
waiting  for  it." 

"  Had  it — did  it  carry  anything  in  its 
arms  ?  " 

"  Now  you  speak  of  it,  I  remember  that 
Clara  mentioned  its  being  burdened  with 
something — she  could  not  guess  what.  It 
might  have  been  a  child,  she  said." 

"  Limping,  hobbling,  carrying  a  baby. 
The  Lame  Lady  !  " 

"The  Lame  Lady?" 

"  Say  nothing  to  Clara.  O  !  we  Cornish 
folk  are  superstitious,  Octavia,  and  some- 
times with  good  reason.  More  than  one  of 
our  old  families  have  their  warning  appari- 
tions, their  signs  and  tokens  of  coming 
trouble  or  of  coming  death.  The  Carews, 
the  Arundells,  the  Trevilles  have  the  white 
hare,  the  fiery  child,  the  mourning  coach 
with  the  headless  horses  ;  and  the  Tre- 
lawneys  have  the  lame  lady  with  her  baby. 
Why,  father  saw  her  before  he  died/' 

"  Rosevear !  " 

"  It  is  meant  for  me."  Rosevear  laid  her 
hand  upon  Octavia's  shoulder.  "  Why 

172 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

should  it  come  to  Clara,  poor  child  ?  "  she 
said,  calmly.  She  was  quite  composed. 
Her  topaz-yellow  eyes  were  undimmed,  and 
the  flush  on  her  cheeks  had  scarcely  faded. 
Octavia's  heart  sank.  In  imagination  she 
saw  the  lid  of  a  coffin  close  over  those  lovely 
locks,  those  sunset  tresses.  And  yet  she 
had  mocked  at  the  Mahatma's  cocked-hat 
notes  and  raspberry  tarts. 

"  You  really  mean  that  you  think  some- 
thing is  about  to  happen  ?  That  this — this 
appearance  is  really  a  forewarning  ?  " 

"  Most  firmly.  Ask  Aunt  Hosanna.  But, 
no  !  Say  nothing  to  any  one.  What  is  to 
be  will  be,"  said  Rosevear  Trelawney, 
solemnly.  Then  her  hand  tightened  rigidly 
upon  Miss  Wall's  shoulder.  Her  lips  grew 
white.  She  pointed  out  of  the  window  with 
a  gesture  of  Sibylline  intensity,  and  rushed 
from  the  room. 

"  What  is  it  ?  Oh  !  What  ?  "  cried 
Octavia,  following. 

A  funereal  procession  was  winding  up  the 
garden  path. 


XXIV 

FIRST  came  a  groom  whose  livery  coat  was 
torn  and  muddy,  and  whose  features  were 
bespattered.  A  couple  of  rustic  hangers-on 
followed  the  groom,  and  four  stout  labour- 
ing men  came  after  these,  carrying  a  hurdle. 
Something  muddy  and  very  still  lay  upon 
the  rude  litter,  covered  with  a  coat.  And 
upon  one  side  walked  Fanny  Dormer,  muddy 
and  hatless,  and  upon  the  other  Farmer 
Polwheal  loomed,  ruddy  and  gigantic  as 
ever. 

"  We  brought  him  here,"  Fanny  panted, 
in  response  to  the  agitated  inquiries  that 
greeted  her.  "  It  was  the  nearest  house 
— and  it  was  all  Sahara's  fault.  I  never 
could  have  believed  that  horse  would  have 
behaved  so.  He  had  had  more  oats  than 
he  was  accustomed  to,  and  they  got  into  his 
head.  That  is  the  only  explanation 
possible." 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  Fetch  water  and  brandy,  as  quickly  as 
you  can,"  said  Rosevear,  in  answer  to 
Lady  Jane's  shriek  of  alarm.  "It  is  only  a 
swoon — his  heart  is  beating." 

As  the  men  set  the  hurdle  down  upon  the 
floor  she  knelt  beside  the  unconscious  man, 
and  unfastened  the  tightened  shirt-collar  with 
quick,  tender  fingers.  There  was  a  cut  upon 
his  head,  from  which  the  blood  had  flowed 
profusely,  and  the  arm  that  lay  help- 
lessly across  his  breast  was  evidently 
broken. 

"  Why,  it  is  The  Usurper,"  whispered 
Clara  Currey  in  Octavia's  ear,  as  Rosevear 
wetted  the  young  man's  pallid  lips  and 
temples  with  the  brandy. 

The  groom,  overhearing,  corrected  her 
respectfully. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,  but  you  are 
wrong.  That  is  my  master,  Squire 
Vosper." 

Lady  Jane  lifted  her  hands  and  eyes  in 
amazement.  She  might  have  uttered  some 
exclamation  had  not  Rosevear  Trelawney 
turned  upon  her  with  a  fierce  imperious- 
ness  which  stifled  the  words  upon  her 
lips. 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  What  does  it  matter  who  or  what  he  is 
when  he  may  be  dying  ?  Let  these 
men  " — she  beckoned  to  the  farm  labourers 
— "  carry  him  to  one  of  the  bedrooms — 
mine  is  the  nearest — and  you  " — she  spoke 
to  the  groom — "  ride  to  Pencarrick  and 
bring  back  a  surgeon  with  you.  Let  there 
be  no  delay,  if  you  value  your  master's 
life." 

The  man  vanished  instantly.  The  hurdle, 
with  its  helpless  burden,  was  borne  upstairs. 
Fanny  sank  limply  into  a  chair. 

"  What  I  have  undergone  to-day,"  she 
said,  emphatically,  "  nobody  knows  but  my- 
self. Please  sit  down,  Mr.  Polwheal,  I  am 
sure  you  must  be  exhausted." 

"  I  am  intruding,  Miss,  I  fear,"  said 
the  farmer,  "  and  will  take  my  leave.  I 
hope  the  poor  young  gentleman  may  re- 
cover." 

"  I  hope  he  will,"  assented  Fanny  (they 
were  alone,  the  attention  of  Lady  Jane  and 
the  other  members  of  the  community  being, 
for  the  moment,  engaged  by  the  patient 
upstairs). 

"  It's  a  bad  job,"  commented  Mr.  Polwheal, 
looking  into  the  crown  of  an  immense  curly- 

176 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

brimmed   hat,    and    heaving    a    ponderous 
sigh. 

"  But  it  might  have  been  worse,"  sighed 
Fanny.  "  Suppose,  for  instance,  it  had  been 
you." 

"  Me  ?  "  said  Mr.  Polwheal. 

"  A  married  man,"  continued  Fanny. 

"  A  widower,  Miss,"  corrected  Mr.  Pol- 
wheal. 

"  A  widower  with  a  large  family,"  went 
on  Fanny. 

"  Twelve  in  number,"  returned  Mr.  Pol- 
wheal. "  Seven  boys  and  five  girls,  all  with 
different  names,  ages,  and  constitutions, 
which  have  to  be  borne  in  mind.  Who'd 
have  remembered  'em,  if  it  had  been  me  ?  " 

"  Someone  might,"  said  Fanny,  insinu- 
atingly, "  for  your  sake." 

"  Who  might  that  person  be,  Miss  ? " 
demanded  Mr.  Polwheal,  gloomily. 

Fanny  coughed  and  turned  her  head  aside 
in  coy^  confusion.  Mr.  Polwheal  rose,  and 
drawing  a  fat  shagreen  letter-case  from  his 
breast-pocket,  extracted  therefrom  a  docu- 
ment, and  spread  it  on  the  table. 

'  Will  you  oblige  me,  Miss,"  he  said,  "  by 
casting  your  eye  over  this  ?  " 

177  12 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

Fanny  cast  her  eye  over  it.  It  was  the 
hexagonal  or  six-sided  rejection  despatched 
on  the  previous  day  in  answer  to  Mr.  Pol- 
wheal's  comprehensive  proposal. 

As  the  farmer's  dogskin-covered  thumb 
travelled  down  the  row  of  signatures, 
Miss  Dormer  started  and  gave  a  little 
scream. 

"  Fanny  Dormer  !     O,  Mr.  Polwheal !  " 

Her  voice  failed  her,  and  she  pressed  her 
hand  upon  her  fluttering  heart. 

"  Anything  wrong,  Miss  ? "  asked  Mr. 
Polwheal. 

"  Wrong  ?  "  returned  Fanny,  in  vibrating 
accents.  "  This  signature  is  not  mine — 
I  never  wrote  it." 

"  Never  wrote  it  ?  " 

"  There  has  been  a  cruel  deception."  She 
sank  upon  the  window-seat,  and  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands.  "  Leave  me — pray  leave 
me.  I  beg — I  implore " 

Emotion  choked  her  utterance.  The 
astonished  Mr.  Polwheal  obeyed.  As  the 
creaking  of  his  boots  died  upon  the  distance, 
Fanny  jumped  up.  She  crossed  to  the 
chimney-glass.  She  regarded  her  features 
critically,  and  nodded  approval. 

178 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  You  managed  that  very  well,  Fanny, 
my  child.  Not  another  girl  in  creation  could 
have  done  it  better — with  a  torn  habit  and 
a  dab  of  mud  on  her  nose." 


179  12* 


XXV 

IT  was  all  the  fault  of  Sahara.  Who  would 
have  suspected,  lurking  beneath  that  almost 
clerical  exterior,  a  reckless  passion  for  sport  ? 
A  dare-devil,  neck-or-nothing  tendency 
which  should  induce  a  usually  depressed  and 
contemplative  animal,  whose  utmost  am- 
bition might  not  be  supposed  to  soar  beyond 
the  drawing  of  a  load  of  vegetables  to  market 
or  railway  station,  to  take  the  field  in  emula- 
tion of  real,  shiny,  thoroughbred  hunters 
with  a  young  lady  on  his  neck,  whose  experi- 
ence of  equitation  was  limited  to  an  occa- 
sional amble  in  the  Park  on  a  hired  hack,  or 
canter  upon  a  country  road.  It  was  in- 
credible. 

"  I  was  quite  enjoying  myself,"  complained 
Fanny,  "  though  there  were  one  or  two 
women  at  the  covert-side  whose  general 
get-up  and  mounting  made  me  feel  as  mean 
as  a  Bayswater  bonnet  must  beside  a  Bond 
Street  one.  That  stout  red-faced  woman, 

180 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

Lady  Gertrude  Tredethis — you  have  seen 
her  driving  a  mail  phaeton  and  pair  about 
the  country — turned  out  in  pink,  and  any- 
thing more  like  an  over-ripe  tomato  you 
cannot  imagine.  And  the  poor  Usurper  " — 
she  stifled  a  giggle,  "  was  making  himself 
agreeable  to  her,  when  the  pack  found. 
The  dear  little  red-brown  cub  bolted  out  of 
the  cover  just  under  Sahara's  nose,  and 
whether  it  was  the  hounds  yelping,  or 
whether  he  did  not  like  their  getting  mixed 
up  with  his  legs,  he  began  to  behave  in  the 
most  extraordinary  way,  and  tossed  me 
about  between  his  ugly  ears  and  his  rat- tail 
like  a  shuttlecock.  My  hat  went,  and  my 
hair  came  down,  and  then  I  found  myself 
in  the  middle  of  the  hunt,  pounding  up  a 
steep  ploughed  field  at  a  pace  I  should  never 
have  imagined.  It  was  idle  form  holding 
the  reins,  I  just  stuck  on  as  I  could.  Then  a 
steep  wall  hedge  rose  up  before  me,  and  I 
gave  myself  up  for  lost,  when  I  heard  some- 
body call  out,  '  Make  for  the  gap.'  I  could 
not  see  any  gap,  and  Sahara  was  gathering 
himself  into  a  kind  of  bunch  underneath  me. 
I  felt  that  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
jump  that  hedge  or  die  in  the  attempt,  and 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

I  remember,  even  in  that  awful  moment, 
wondering  whether  papa  would  go  on  pay- 
ing our  allowance  of  three  hundred  a  year 
to  Marjory  in  the  event  of  my  decease,  or 
cut  her  down  by  one  half;  And  then  there 
was  a  fearful  crash  !  I  felt  myself  turning 
over  and  over  in  the  air,  and  when  I  opened 
my  eyes,  expecting  to  find  myself  in  the 
New* Jerusalem,  I  was  sitting  in  a  damp  fur- 
row, safe  and  sound,  and  Sahara  was  no- 
where to  be  seen.  I  got  up  then,  and  crawled 
through  the  gap  into  the  next  field,  and " 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  Well,  the  first  thing  I  saw  was  Sahara, 
with  all  the  ambition  taken  out  of  him,  peace- 
fully grazing  a  little  way  off.  Then  I  noticed 
The  Usurper's  horse,  without  any  saddle, 
careering  down  hill,  and  then  The  Usurper 
himself,  lying  doubled  up  in  the  ditch  close 
by."  Fanny  laughed  hysterically.  "  I 
thought  he  was  dead  until  he  opened  his 
eyes.  It  seems  that  he  had  ridden  his  horse 
at  the  ditch  in  front  of  Sahara,  with  the  idea 
of  stopping  him  half-way,  and  then  the 
brute  blundered  right  into  him.  The  saddle- 
girths  broke,  and  as  I  slid  over  Sahara's 
tail,  he  shot  over  his  animal's  head,  and — 

182 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

the  whole  thing  would  have  been  good  for 
nothing  but  to  laugh  at,  if  he  hadn't  been 
kicked.  As  it  is  he  has  got  concussion  of 
the  brain  and  a  broken  arm.  Imagine  the 
humiliation  of  owing  all  these  dilapidations 
to  Sahara.  It  is  as  bad  as  being  run  over 
by  a  bathing  machine  or  a  steam  roller." 

"Who  would  ever  have  expected  Sahara 
to  break  out  after  such  a  fashion  ?  " 

"  Did  not  we  purchase  him  of  Rosevear's 
tenant,  Mr.  Pengwillian  ?  Well,  I  have 
heard  the  whole  story  of  his  origin  from 
Mr.  Polwheal." 

"  From  Mr.  Polwheal  ?  "  Lady  Jane  re- 
peated, stiffening. 

'Yes.  I  don't  know  how  we  should  have 
managed  without  Mr.  Polwheal.  It  was 
he  who  bandaged  The  Usurper's  head,  and 
fetched  the  labourers  with  the  hurdle,  and 
proposed  our  bringing  the  poor  fellow 

here " 

'  Very  obliging,  I  am  sure." 

"  As  Trelawney  is  three  miles  further  off. 
He  told  me  that  Sahara  originally  came 
from  the  Trelawney  stables ;  that  old 
Squire  Vosper  used  to  hunt  him  in  his  younger 
days  ;  and  that  he  had  to  be  sold  at  last, 

183 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

being  an  inveterate  bolter.  So,  after  many 
vicissitudes,  he  came  into  the  hands  of  Mr. 
Pengwillian,  and,  finally,  into  ours.  Of 
course,  the  sight  of  a  red  coat  reminds  him 
of  old  times,  poor  beast ;  and  Mr.  Polwheal 
says  if  he  had  had  our  market  wagon  behind 
him  full  of  vegetables  he  would  have  started 
across  country  just  the  same." 

"  We  shall  have  to  get  rid  of  him.  I  knew 
from  the  first,"  said  Lady  Jane,  "  that  we 
made  a  mistake  in  buying  him.  He  never 
came  up  to  Maria  Mulcher's  standard  of 
equine  perfection." 

"  N — no.  He  certainly  never  did.  Mr. 
Polwheal  says,  by  the  way,  that  he  would  be 
willing  to  take  him,  and  give  us  a  more 
suitable  animal  in  exchange." 

"  Mr.  Polwheal  is  very  obliging,"  said 
Lady  Jane,  frostily.  "  When  did  he  offer 
this  suggestion,  may  I  ask  ?  " 

"  This  morning.  I  met  him  a  little  while 
ago — accidentally — on  the  Porthporra  road. 
He  was  driving  his  gig  and  was  kind  enough 
to  offer  me  a  lift  as  far  as  our  gate." 

"  But  Octavia  was  with  you  !  " 

''  She  had  dropped  behind,  quite  half  a 
mile.  When  one  is  interested  in  conversation 

184 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

one  walks  slowly,  and  they  seemed  to  have 
a  good  deal  to  say  to  each  other." 

"  To — each — other."  The  words  dropped 
like  stalactites  from  the  lips  of  Lady  Jane. 

"  She  and  Mr.  Carew,  the  rector.  There 
they  are  now,  close  to  the  garden  gate.  He 
has  assumed  his  pulpit  manner,  and  Octavia 
is  listening  quite  absorbedly." 

So  she  was.  Lady  Jane  could  not  distrust 
the  evidence  of  her  own  eyes.  Fanny  went 
to  the  door,  but  turned,  as  her  fashion  was, 
to  deliver  a  farewell  bolt. 

"  It  looks,"  she  suggested,  with  a  wicked 
twinkle  of  her  queer  absinthe-coloured  eyes, 
"  as  if  the  Serpent  had  wound  his  way  into 
Octavia's  Adamless  Eden  ;  with  the  parson 
at  the  garden  gate,  the  farmer  at  the 
threshold "  (Mr.  Polwheal  at  that  very 
instant,  very  elaborately  attired,  and 
healthily  florid,  knocked  at  the  front  door 
to  inquire  after  the  invalid),  "  and  The 
Usurper  upstairs  in  the  second-best  bedroom, 
we  ought  to  choose  a  new  motto  for  the 
L.L.C.F.F.F.G.  Don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

Then  she  went  away. 


185 


XXVI 

ABOVE  the  coastguard  point,  on  the  southern 
side  of  Porthporra  Haven,  a  blunt  rock 
smeared  with  Government  whitewash  serves 
for  the  starting-point  of  a  winding  cliff-path, 
just  wide  enough  for  a  fisherman  and  his 
sweetheart  to  walk  on  a  Sunday  afternoon 
or  evening,  hand  in  hand.  The  restless 
surges  beat  on  the  jagged  shoal-rocks,  far 
down  below,  and  the  brake-clothed  hill  sweeps 
up  on  the  other  hand,  to  bare  peaks,  where 
sure-footed  sheep  are  nibbling  the  short  salt 
grasses.  A  lovely,  lonely  walk ;  loveliest 
at  sunset,  when  a  gentle  breeze  blows,  shep- 
herding flocks  of  red  cloudlets  home  to  their 
fold  in  the  purple-barred  western  sky. 

Joan  Melhuish  and  Huey  Lenine  walked 
on  the  cliff-path  as  they  had  done  many 
times.  But  on  this  Saturday  evening  they 
did  not  go  hand-in-hand  in  simple  Arcadian 
fashion.  And  when  they  sat  down  to  rest 
and  look  out  at  the  familiar  and  yet  ever- 

186 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

changing  pageant  of  sky  and  sea,  they  did 
not  lean  shoulder  to  shoulder,  or  touch  cheek 
with  cheek,  as  confident  sweethearts  are  used 
to  do. 

Joan's  grey  eyes  were  downcast,  her  olive 
cheeks  were  paler  than  their  wont.  There 
were  drooping  lines  about  her  firm  lips  that 
told  of  watching  and  weariness — perhaps 
of  tears.  She  had  volunteered  to  sit  up  in  Mr. 
Vosper's  sick  room  on  the  night  before. 
Such  a  night  will  leave  its  traces  even  on  a 
young  cheek.  But  she  certainly  had  not  been 
crying  over  the  young  squire,  whose  recovery 
seemed  a  certain  thing.  The  trouble  lay 
nearer  to  her  heart. 

She  sat  upon  a  natural  seat  of  grey,  lichen- 
spangled  rock,  where  the  cliff-way  swerved 
downwards  to  merge  in  the  unbroken  fallows, 
flushed  with  the  last  poppies  of  the  year,  that 
swept  round  the  curve  of  a  lovely,  lonely 
bay.  A  grey  old  church,  sitting  amongst  the 
tombstones  of  forgotten  generations,  lifted 
its  half-ruined  spire  towards  the  evening 
star,  sheep-bells  tinkled  faintly  from  the 
distant  pastures. 

"  Tes  pratty,  sure,"  said  Huey  Lenine, 
with  a  sigh. 

187 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

'  You'm  seed  it  often  enough,  lad,  t'  knaw 
that,"  Joan  responded,  gravely. 

"  Ay.  But  tes  like  as  if  a  curtain 
had  be'n  hangin'  afore  sky  an'  sea  an' 
all  togither,  ever  sin'  aw  were  horned. 
An'  niver  lifted,  lass — niver  lifted  until 
now." 

"  Niver  till  now  ?  " 

"  Naw.  Th'  scales  ha'  fallen  from  ma 
eyes,  like  as  et  happened  to  th'  man  i' 
Scripture.  '  Aw  ha'  be'n  blind,  but  now  aw 
can  see.'  Somehow  like  that  th'  words  run, 
don't  em  ?  " 

"  M'appen  th'  man  wer'  happier  blind,  than 
open  eyed." 

"  M'appen  so,  but  aw  should  doubt  it." 
He  swept  out  his  right  arm  with  a  free 
gesture,  pointing  to  the  sunset  sky,  the  opal 
sea,  the  grey  spire  rising  from  the  tombstone- 
dotted  church-hay,  the  grey  sands  shelving 
to  the  ripples.  "  A  man — a  gentleman — 
writ  a  song  about  Tarrand  Sands  there.  Aw 
read  it  i'  a  book — en  aw  cud  ha'  laughed  at 
him  for  a  fule  for  stringen  a  pa' eel  o'  fine 
rhymin'  words  togither,  en  all  to  do  wi'  a 
place  aw'd  knawed  all  ma  life.  But  aw  know 
now  who  was  th'  fule. 

188 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

'  Th'  cliffs  wer'  crowned  wi'  th'  purple  vetches, 
Th'  rabbits  basked  on  th'  warm  grey  beaches, 
Shrill  gulls  wer'  cryin'  along  the  reaches 

O'  Tarrand  Sands ! 

Nigh  on^by  wher'  th'  streamlet  presses 
Down  to  th'  sea  between  banks  o'  cresses, 
Aw  stood  fast  locked  i'  my  love's  embraces 

On  Tarrand  Sands  !  ' 

Tes  pratty — pratty !  Aw  might  make  a 
tune  t'  bear  th'  words  if  aw'd  th'  ould  fiddle 
i'  ma  hand.  Yet  once  aw  couldn'  see  a 
pennord  o'  sense  i'  them,  or  th'  man  es  made 
them.  His  eyes  wer'  oppen,  'ee  see,  while 
mine  wer'  shut." 

Joan  turned  her  grave  glance  upon  him. 
Her  bosom  heaved  beneath  the  folds  of  the 
shawl,  which  had  fallen  from  her  head,  the 
breeze  stirred  the  strong  tendrils  of  silken 
black  that  wandered  about  her  white  neck 
and  her  calm  forehead  as  she  said  : 

"  Ther's  a  tale  telling  of  a  blind  man — 
— aw  read  it  the  other  day — a  man  that 
had  been  blind  all  th'  life  of  him,  an'  niver 
even  looked  o'  th'  face  o'  th'  woman  that 
loved  him.  For  a  woman  loved  him,  an'  they 
wer'  to  be  married  one  day — them  as  wer' 
wedded  already  i'  th'  eyes  o'  th'  Almighty. 

189 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

But  before  that  day  came,  came  a  great  eye- 
doctor  to  th'  village  wher'  they  lived,  en 
th'  woman  persuaded  th'  blind  man  t'  go  t' 
him.  '  M'appen,'  her  sayth,  '  ther'  may 
be  hope.  Th'  man  went,  en  come  back 
wi'  th'  news  that  ther'  wer'  hope.  Life  t' 
him,  that  news.  Death — and  worse  than 
death— t'  she." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  Because  her  wer'  coarse-favoured  en 
plain,  wi'  hands  roughened  wi'  labour,  done 
for  love  o'  him,  en  hair  whitened  wi'  trouble, 
borne  for  his  dear  sake.  Her  was  ill-feared 
he  would  love  her  no  more  when  he  once  saw 
her.  But  her  said  not  one  word  against  th' 
operation.  An'  when  th'  sharp  knife  cut  its 
way  into  th'  darkness,  an'  th'  weary  days  o' 
waitin'  were  over,  the  first  face  him  seed 
were  hers.  An'  him  turned  from  she  in 
disgust.  '  Niver  'ee  try  for  t'  hide  it/ 
her  said,  '  aw  be  not  what  you'm  expectin' 
and  aw  know  't  full  well.  An  'twer  shame 
to  hold  'ee  to  th'  ould  promise,  you'm  gin 
me  under  a  mistake.  So  think  'ee  no  more 
about  'n/  her  said.  En  her  took  what  little 
her  had  an  went  away.  Him  said  no  word 
t'  stop  her,  an'  aw  din't  say  as  him  wer* 

190 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

altogether  in  the  wrong.  M'appen  his  new 
eyes  saw  less  clearly  than  his  heart  had  done 
— ther'  be  no  tellin'.  But  her — th'  woman 
as  loved  him  so  dear — her  wer'  i'  the  right. 
Her  wer'  i'  th'  right " — her  voice  rose — 
"  An  that  brings  me  t'  what  aw  wer'  wishin' 
t'  say  to  'ee,  Huey  Lenine.  Take  back  th' 
promise  'ee  made  me  in  th'  ould  days — th' 
days  when  'ee  wer  blind.  You'm  no  need  to 
chafe  at  the  cable  longer,  for  'tis  cut,  an' 
you'm  a  free  man  from  this  day  out." 

"  Joan  !  " 

"  Aw  want  no  words.  Us  can  read  each 
other's  faces,  though  m'appen  our  hearts 
are  shut  against  each  other.  I'  th'  dark- 
ness what  seemed  to  'ee  a  pretty  face,  is  a 
poor  one,  now  that  th'  light,  th'  new  light 
shows  it  at  its  worst.  Aw'm  not  blamin'  th' 
light  or  thee,  th'  Lord  knows.  Ther'  be  no 
bitterness  in  my  heart  towards  'ee  or  her. 
Tis  wonderfully  quiet."  She  held  her  hand 
out  to  him,  and,  rising,  drew  her  common 
shawl  about  her  noble  figure,  and  turned 
homewards,  with  a  last  look  at  the  incarna- 
dined splendours  of  the  sky.  "  Naw,  lad," 
as  Lenine  made  a  motion  to  accompany 
her,  "  ther'  mun  be  no  more  walkin'  together 

191 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

after  this.  Folks  shall  know  'tis  aw  over 
between  'ee  and  Joan,  an'  wi'  no  fault  on 
either  side  to  blame.  Good-night  fee." 

Her  hand  dropped  from  his.  She  had 
gone  from  him  before  he  could  speak. 

He  looked  up  with  a  sailor's  instinct  at 
the  sky,  as  the  wind  shifted  its  quarter  to 
the  north-east,  and  a  pale  lambent  moon 
soared  into  view  above  the  rugged  crest  of 
the  hill.  So  pale,  so  pure,  so  infinitely 
remote — some  subtle  analogy  between  that 
distant  gleaming  orb  and  another  existing  as 
far  beyond  the  radius  of  yearning  thoughts 
and  wild  aspirations,  may  have  touched  some 
quivering  chord  in  the  hot,  wild  heart  to 
pain  past  bearing.  Else  why  did  he  throw 
himself  face  downwards  on  the  heather  and 
weep  such  secret,  scalding,  bitter  tears  ? 


192 


"  NAW,  LAD,  THER'  MUN  KK  NO  MORE  WALKIX'  TOGETHER  AFTER 
THIS."    /.  191. 


XXVII 

"  I  SHOULD  be  glad  to  know,"  Lady  Jane 
said  to  the  surgeon,  "  your  candid  opinion  of 
Mr.  Vosper." 

Mr.  Bevill  looked  at  the  anxious  lady  re- 
assuringly out  of  a  pair  of  handsome  brown 
eyes. 

"  I  think,  madam,"  he  returned,  "  that  the 
patient  is  going  on  " — he  hesitated — "  as 
well  as  can  be  expected." 

The  sentence  sounded  familiar  in  the  ears 
of  Lady  Jane,  and  yet  it  failed  to  reassure 
her. 

"  Mr.  Curnow  Vosper  has  suffered  severe 
injuries  to  the  head,"  she  said.  "  He  has 
only  recently  returned  to  consciousness  after 
a  protracted  period  of  insensibility.  It  is 
natural,  perhaps — that  his  mind  should 
wander — that  he  should  talk  incoherently  at 
times " 

Mr.  Bevill  interrupted  the  anxious  lady. 

(<  Mr.  Curnow  Vosper  is  perfectly  clear  in 

13 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

his  mind.  He  exhibits  not  the  slightest 
symptom  of  mental  disturbance.  Pray  accept 
my  professional  assurance  on  that  point." 

"  Excuse  me  a  moment " 

Lady  Jane  rang  the  bell,  and  despatched 
Joan  Melhuish  with  a  message,  requesting 
Miss  Trelawney  to  step  into  the  parlour. 
Miss  Trelawney  appeared,  rather  paler  than 
her  wont. 

"  But  a  lovely  girl,  for  all  that,"  said  the 
appreciative  surgeon  to  himself.  "  That  red- 
gold  hair  and  those  wonderful  tawny  eyes 
are  enough  to  make  a  man  commit  an  idiotcy 
or  two.  Poor  old  Curny  !  " 

"  You  are,  I  believe,  an  old  acquaintance 
of  Mr.  Vosper's  ?  "  hazarded  Lady  Jane. 

"  We  were  schoolfellows,"  responded  the 
handsome  surgeon,  "  and  our  boyish  friend- 
ship has  not  lessened  with  years.  I  hap- 
pened very  fortunately  to  be  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood when  this  accident  occurred.  In 
fact,  my  yacht — only  a  small  affair,  but  quite 
commodious  enough  for  a  single  man — lies 
anchored  in  Porthporra  Harbour,  and  in 
promptly  fetching  me  to  his  master's  bed- 
side— I  was  engaged  to  dine  with  my  poor 
friend  on  the  very  night  of  the  accident — 

194 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

the  groom  showed  a  great  deal  of  commend- 
able intelligence,  for  I  don't  disguise  from 
you,  ladies,  that  had  Mr.  Curnow  fallen  into 
the  hands  of  one  of  these  local  butchers,  his 
state  would  have  been  the  less  gracious  to- 
day/' 

"  My  dear  Rosevear  !  "  — Lady  Jane  turned 
to  Miss  Trelawney — "  Mr.  Bevill  assures  me 
positively  that  Mr.  Vosper  is  not  delirious  !  " 

"  Pulse  absolutely  normal,"  said  Mr.  Bevill, 
"  and  it  stands  to  reason  that  without  fever 
there  can — in  a  sane  subject — be  no  delirium." 

"  Then  how — " — Miss  Trelawney  clasped 
her  hands — "  how  are  his  wanderings  to  be 
accounted  for  !  His  hallucinations  ?  " 

"  Hallucinations  ?    Of  what  nature  ?  " 

"  Of  a  most  extraordinary  nature."  Rose- 
vear crimsoned  to  the  very  temp  les,  and  then 
grew  pale.  "  With — I  must  speak  precisely 
— with  regard  to  myself.  He  will  take  his 
medicine  from  no  other  hand  than  mine " 

"  Incredible  !  "  the  young  surgeon  mut- 
tered, with  twitching  lips. 

"  And,  although  I  had  previously  seen  Mr. 
Vosper  but   twice,    and   our  communication 
has  been  limited  to  a  dozen  words  or  so,  he — 
it  is  very  sad,  poor  fellow !  "  said  Rosevear, 

13* 


iMaids  in  a  Market  Garden 

pityingly — "  he  is  possessed  by  the  convic- 
tion that  I  have  been  carrying  on  a  romantic 
flirtation  with  him.  For  weeks  past " 

"  My  dear  child  !  "  burst  out  Lady  Jane. 

"  He  has  persisted  in  this  assertion  ever 
since  he  regained  consciousness/'  continued 
Miss  Trelawney,  "  and  found  me  in  attendance 
at  his  bedside.  I  would  have  withdrawn  my- 
self— avoided  him — but  that " 

"  But  such  a  proceeding  on  your  part  would 
have  probably  been  attended  with  an  in- 
crease of  unfavourable  symptoms/'  said  the 
young  surgeon.  "  Yes,  yes.  Certainly.  I 
confess  your  revelation  has  surprised  me,  Miss 
Trelawney."  He  looked  very  hard  at  Rose- 
vear.  "  For  the  meanwhile  there  is  nothing 
to  be  done  but  to  humour  the  patient,  and 
wait.  Anything  done  precipitately  is  done 
wrongly  in  a  case  of  this  description." 

He  shook  hands  with  the  ladies,  and  went 
away.  As  he  got  on  the  horse,  which  was 
being  held  by  one  of  the  Trelawney  grooms 
at  the  garden  gate,  he  shook  his  head  re- 
flectively. 

"  A  most  unexpected  move  on  the  part 
of  the  fair  one.  Quite  masterly.  I  should 
never  have  suspected  that  to  be  an  artful 

196 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

girl.     Yet "     He  shook  his  head  again. 

"  Poor  old  Curny.  Pity  he  didn't  pitch  his 
affections  on  somebody  else  ;  Miss  Trelawney, 
with  all  her  tawny  beauties,  is  less  taking 
than  the  other  one — the  languid,  Oriental 
beauty,  Marjory  Dormer.  Pretty  name,  Mar- 
jory Dormer.  She  consulted  me  about  her 
health  yesterday  under  the  barberry  tree  in 
the  garden,  and  I  was  very  nearly  led  into 
asking  her  advice  with  regard  to  the  state 
of  my  own  heart.  Glad,  on  the  whole,  I 
didn't.  There  is  enough  of  artfulness  in 
Miss  Trelawney  to  leaven  the  whole  com- 
munity. Oh,  Eve,  Eve  !  " 

The  reader,  better  informed  than  Mr. 
Philip  Bevill,  will  be  led  to  exclaim,  "  Oh, 
Fanny,  Fanny  !  "  Truly  the  Machiavellian 
arts  of  that  young  person  were  at  the  bottom 
of  Mr.  Vosper's  extraordinary  hallucination, 
Lady  Jane's  bewilderment,  and  Mr.  Bevill's 
unfavourable  opinion  of  Rosevear  Trelawney. 


197 


XXVIII 

"  BE  'ee  goin'  t'  th'  love-feast,  cheild, 
th'night  ?  Eh,  dear,  but  her  've  clane  forgot 
aw  about  't  ?  En  aw  mid  sure  Huey  wid 
be  lukin'  in  afore  this,  en  nayther  bone  nor 
feather  o'  he  have  aw  seed.  Though  brother 
Oliver  down  t'  th'  mill  had  a  glimpse  of  un 
yisterday,  an  him  zaid  th'  lad  did  luk  th' 
picture  o'  ill-luck,  en  him  wer'  misdoubtin' 
'at  him  an  Joan  had  fell  out,  though  aw 
called  him  a  vull  for's  pains." 

'  Uncle  Job  were  right,  Aunt  'Sanna, 
right  i'  a  way.  Huey  an'  me  us  ha' — not 
fallen  out — but  come  to  an  understanding. 
Clear  and  plain.  From  this  out  us  are  friends 
— true  friends,  wi'  no  thought  o'  marriage 
between  us." 

"  Ma  sweet  sensis  !  En  'ee  en  him  sweet- 
'arts  from  th'  cradle.  Well,  well,  to  think 
oj  that !  " 

"  Please  don't  'ee  say  no  more  !  "  Joan 
entreated,  with  a  sharp  accent  of  pain. 

198 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  Aw'll  hould  ma  tongue,  cheild,  for  t' 
please  'ee.  But  my  kind  'art,  such  a  turn 
as  'ee  've  give  ma.  It's  fair  turned  ma 
blid  t'  watter,  so  it  has." 

Thus  Aunt  Hosanna  mourned  the  breakage 
of  her  niece's  love-bubble.  It  was  with  an 
elongated  countenance  that  she  presented 
herself  before  Lady  Jane,  later  on,  to  solicit 
a  holiday  for  the  afternoon. 

"  A  love-feast  at  the  Porthporra  chapel/' 
cried  Fanny  Dormer,  curiously.  "  What  is 
a  love-feast  ?  Buns  and  tea  and  marmalade 
— and  hymns  to  follow  ?  Do  you  know  " — 
she  turned  coaxingly  to  Lady  Jane — "I 
should  like  of  all  things  to  go." 

"  'Ee  mite  du  worsen,"  said  Aunt  Hosanna, 
who  regarded  Fanny  with  secret  disapproba- 
tion. "  Aw  've  zeed  many  a  worldly-minded 
young  wumman  browt  t'  th'  Footstool  at  a 
love-feast.  'Twill  be  th'  singin'  draws  zum 
at  th'  beginnin' — our  men-folk  du  sing 
bravely — or  else  th'  fleshpots  ;  or  else  vanity 
— just  t'  be  lukin'  at  each  other's  gownds. 
But  when  one  en  another  gets  up  tellin' 
fowk  ther  experiences,  en  th'  strong  prayers 
go  up  en  th'  heavenly  grace  comin'  pourin* 
down,  'tis  odds  if  some  di'n't  find  conviction 

199 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

en  take  a  blessin'  away,  even  if  'em  loses 
it  o'  th'  way  home." 

"  The  singing — is  it  really  so  nice  ? " 
pursued  Fanny. 

"  Ay,  it  is  that.  Our  Joan,  her  be  a  choir- 
member.  En  Huey,  him  du  play  i'  th' 
orchestra- 
Aunt  'Sanna  broke  off  and  retired  hastily. 
But  the  idea  of  going  to  the  chapel  that  even- 
ing had  firmly  fixed  itself  in  Fanny's  mind. 

"  It  will  be  a  relaxation  in  a  sort  of  a  way. 
A  new  experience — and  new  experiences  are 
always  worth  having.  Come,  Lady  Jane, 
and  you,  Clarrikins,  and  Octavia." 

"  I  hardly  think  the  Rector  would  ap- 
prove," began  Octavia. 

"  What  ?  "  shrieked  Fanny  ;  and  Octavia's 
ordinarily  composed  countenance  became 
suffused  with  red.  She  agreed  to  come  quite 
hastily,  and  ventured  no  more  on  the  subject 
of  the  Rector's  pastoral  prejudices. 

"  And  Marjory  and  Rosevear  will  stay 
behind  and  look  after  The  Usurper,"  went 
on  Fanny. 

"  Do  you  think ?  "  hesitated  Lady 

Jane. 

"  There  is  safety  in  numbers.  And  Mrs. 
200 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

Job  from  the  Mill  is  coming  up  to  look  after 
things  in  general  while  Aunt  Hosanna  and 
Joan  are  away.  Besides,  we  shall  not  start 
until  after  tea."  Fanny  pleaded,  and  Lady 
Jane  yielded  at  last. 


201 


XXIX 

THE  mighty  piles  of  cake  and  slabs  of  bread- 
and-butter  which  had  adorned  the  setting 
forth  of  the  trestle-tables,  were  concealed 
from  view  by  the  time  the  Killigarth  contin- 
gent arrived  upon  the  scene  of  godly  revel ; 
the  crumbs  had  been  swept  up,  the  Britannia- 
metal  teapots  piled  in  stacks  in  the  corners, 
the  peacefully-inclined  babies  had  been 
hushed  to  sleep,  and  the  fretfully-inclined 
ones  carried  home  to  bed.  The  chapel — a 
long,  low  building,  lighted  by  windows  of 
plain  glass,  and  stained  as  to  the  plaster 
walls,  and  composition  pillars,  of  a  cheer- 
ful yellow,  picked  out  with  chocolate — was 
thronged  with  fishermen,  farmers,  and  their 
wives  in  gala  attire.  Upon  the  rostrum, 
inside  a  kind  of  varnished  packing  case, 
sat  several  prosperous-looking  persons  attired 
in  ministerial  sable.  Three  of  these  con- 
ferred earnestly  together  over  a  volume  of 

202 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

Wesley's  Hymns,  while  a  fourth,  enervated 
with  tea  and  exhausted  by  much  previous 
exhortation,  slumbered  in  a  corner. 

Lady  Jane  and  her  companions  glided  into 
an  empty  pew.  Looking  about  them  they 
descried  the  familiar  faces  of  Aunt  'Sanna 
and  her  brother  the  miller,  of  Joan  Melhuish 
— Joan's  olive  face  was  unusually  pale  and 
pinched  of  late,  and  her  grey  eyes  looked  out 
upon  the  world  with  a  sternness  usually 
foreign  to  their  regard.  The  change  manifest 
in  her  was  visible  in  Huey  Lenine.  As  Clara 
Currey's  shy  glance  sought  the  young  fisher- 
man out  and  rested  on  him,  he  looked  up 
and  encountered  it,  and  the  hot  blood 
surged  visibly  to  his  brown  temples  and  the 
roots  of  his  yellow  curls.  The  blue  eyes 
and  the  soft  hazel  ones  flashed  into  each 
other  for  one  eager  moment  and  then  parted, 
as  Huey  dropped  his  head  moodily  upon  his 
breast  again. 

Late  people  kept  dropping  in  one  by  one, 
the  chapel  was  becoming  crowded.  As  a 
draught  of  unusual  volume  saluted  the  back 
of  Lady  Jane's  neck,  she  turned  her  head  an 
instant  to  confront  the  burly  personality  of 
Mr.  Polwheal,  who  occupied  a  seat  behind 

203 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

her.  In  not  altogether  gratified  surprise 
the  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Llwddllm  turned 
her  gaze  upon  the  features  of  Miss  Fanny 
Dormer.  Those  features  wore  an  air  of 
Perdita-like  innocence.  Lady  Jane  dis- 
missed the  suspicion  her  magnanimous  mind 
had  for  one  instant  harboured,  as  an  un- 
worthy one. 

The  proceedings  began  with  a  hymn.  A 
harmonium,  a  violoncello,  and  a  clarionet 
supplied  the  accompaniment  to  the  robust 
and  tuneful  voices  of  the  choir.  It  was 
singing  of  an  untutored  kind  but  of  artistic 
quality.  Singing  that  made  the  heart  throb 
quicker  and  brought  unaccountable  tears 
into  the  eyes.  Singing  that  had  the  rhythm 
of  the  salt  waves,  the  harmony  and  power 
of  the  sea  winds,  in  it.  That  was  all.  A 
prayer  was  next  put  up  by  one  of  the 
ministers.  It  was  a  long  petition,  and  a 
strong  one,  and  the  clenched  hands,  swollen 
forehead-veins  and  crimson  face  of  the  inter- 
cessor betokened  his  earnestness.  And  then 
a  brother  (from  Yorkshire,  evidently)  rose 
to  deliver  an  address.  He  was  a  broad- 
shouldered,  thickset,  rosy-cheeked  fellow,  with 
a  pleasant  voice  and  the  instincts  of  a 

204 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

comedian,  as  many  a  giggle  and  guffaw  on 
the  part  of  his  hearers  testified. 

"  My  brothers  an*  sisters/'  he  began. 
"  Oor  respectid  fren'  Broother  Davis " 
(applause  on  the  part  of  the  congregation) 
"  draw'd  me  o'  one  side  t' night  afore  meet- 
in'  '  (distinct  discomfort  on  the  part  of 
Brother  Davis)  "  to  gie  me  wot  he  corled  a 
warnin'.  A  warnin'.  Says  he,  '  Whativer 
ye  du,  dunnot  let  oor  chapel  fowk  knaw 
that  ye  be  nowt  but  an  owd  convartid  collier. 
'T'would  set  'em  agin  ye  fra'  the  start. 
Them  words  fra'  Broother  Davis  med  up 
my  mind.  Collier  I  be,  collier  I  will  always 
be,  tak'  me  or  leave  me.  'Twas  doon  i* 
th'  black  coal-pits  thot  the  Light  first  found 
me,  'twas  forth  fra'  them  I  came  wi'  my 
mind  set  o'  the  ministry  o'  the  Gospel.  Him 
or  her  as  is  tew  prood  to  hear  my  words, 
better  goo  owt  o'  th'  chapel  till  I  ha'  said 
my  say."  No  one  stirred.  "  Tis  borne  in 
upo'  me  to  testify  to-night  to  the  Power 
thot  made  an'  saved  me,  thot  makes  an' 
saves  other  sinners  ivera  day.  Th'  stronger 
th'  fortress  taken  th'  greater  th'  glory  ;  th' 
blacker  th'  sinner  th'  greater  th'  credit  to 
Him  that  meks  him  clean."  (A  sob  from 

205 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

a  woman.)  "  Weel,  as  to  this  Power  an' 
the  way  of  its  workin'  I  could  tell  ye  many 
things.  But  theer  be  little  time,  an'  I  mun 
mek  th'  most  of  't.  Down  i'  th'  owd  home 
country  amongst  th'  coal-pits  wheer  'twer 
my  privilege  to  live  an'  labour,  there  wer'  an' 
owd  mahn  as  wer'  as  unregenerate  a  sinner 
as  iver  I  did  see.  Gamin',  drinkin',  an'  cock 
fightin' — nowt  i'  th'  way  of  divilment  but 
came  easy  t'  him,  and  when  th'  liquor  had 
gotten  fair  howd  o'  him  he  wer'  like  a  mad- 
man, as  his  poor  owd  wife  shoo  know'd  t' 
shoe's  cost.  Wun  night  as  I  wer'  preachin' 
from  a  barril  I  seed  this  owd  sinner,  Dicky 
they  ca'd  him,  standin'  by.  An'  I  leans 
ower  an'  taps  him  o'  th'  shouther,  an'  says  i' 
my  discourse,  '  Friend,  coom  up  hither.' 
He  says,  '  I'm  dom'd  if  I  dew.'  '  Dom'd  yo' 
will  be,'  I  says,  '  if  yo'  dinna,  yo'  grut  sinner. 
Better  save  yo'r  soul  before  'tis  tew  late  !  ' 
Powerful  words  I  spoke  thot  night,  an' 
though  he  went  hoam  unconverted,  i'  th' 
middle  o'  thot  night  he  found  th'  Lord. 
Th'  mornin'  found  him  a  new  mahn." 

"  Hallelujah  !  "  from  a  hearer. 

"  A  changed  mahn.  He  towd  th'  neigh- 
bours, an'  he  towd  his  wife,  an'  says  shoo, 

206 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

'  A  professin'  Christian  mahn't  keep  a  fightin' 
cock.  Yo'd  best  sell  th'  bird  for  whativer 
'twill  fetch  !  '  An'  he  wint  owt  an'  browt  in 
th'  bird  under  his  arm.  'Sithee,'  says  he, 
'  I'll  show  yo'  what  I  be  goin'  tew  dew  with 
'n.'  Ck  I "  (expressive  pantomime  on  the 
part  of  the  preacher).  "  He  wrung  its  neck 
—by  th'  power  o'  th'  Lord.  An'  if  th* 
power  o'  th'  Lord  can  mek  a  Yorkshire 
collier  wring  th'  neck  o'  his  pet  fightin'  cock, 
man  friends,  th'  power  o'  th'  Lord  can  asy 
move  mountains  an'  raise  th'  dead." 

The  Yorkshireman  sat  down,  wiping  his 
brow.  A  white-haired  minister  rose  to  speak, 
the  soft  drawl  of  the  local  district  contrast- 
ing strongly  with  the  rugged  accents  of  the 
previous  preacher. 

"  Ma  friends,  young  an'  ould,  zum  o' 
whume  I  ha'  played  wi'  en  boyhood,  others 
es  aw  ha'  dandled  as  babes  upon  ma  knee, 
aw  ha'  somethin'  to  confess  before  'ee  all 
this  night — somethin'  as  lay  heavy  on  ma 
mind,  so  that  aw  cannot  stand  up  afore  'ee 
wi'  a  clear  conscience,  en  a  smooth  brow,  till 
aw  ha'  med  a  clane  breast  o'  th'  trouble  en 
th'  zin.  What  be  ma  zin,  neighbours  ? 
Hear  ma.  I  ha'  tampered  wi'  my  soul.  I'm 

207 


iMaids  in  a  Market  Garden 

a  minister  o'  th'  Gospel.  Aw  ha'  played  th' 
hypocrite — th'  self-deceiver  "  (the  steady  old 
voice  faltered),  "  wi'  ma  Maker  an'  myself. 
'Twas  this  way.  Aw  wer'  drivin'  ma  sheep 
en  ma  bullocks  home  from  th'  pasture  no 
later  than  yisterday  evenin'.  En  es  aw 
walked  behind  th'  beasts  aw  wer'  plannin' 
th'  discourse  i'  ma  mind  es  aw  wer'  tew 
deliver  tew-day.  But  aw  wer'  sore  troubled. 
For  th'  sheep  ran  one  way  en  th'  bullocks 
anuther,  en  wer'  out  o'  all  control.  En  aw 
wer'  sore  tempted  t'  swear.  May  th'  Lord 
forgive  ma !  " 

"  Dear,  dear  !  "  groaned  the  hearers. 

"Us  be  weak  mortals,  in't  us  ?  But  aw 
resisted  th'  temptation." 

"  Praise  Him  !  " 

"  Not  i'  th'  right  way,  Brother  Oliver. 
Aw  wriggled  out  o'  th'  enemy's  path  instid 
o'  facin'  he  bouldly.  'Twer'  like  this.  As 
my  tongue  wer'  rollin'  round  the  end  o'  a 
wicked  word,  a  cart  an'  horse  came  along, 
an'  th'  man  as  walked  beside  th'  horse  him 
wer'  a  stranger — not  o'  this  parish.  En  aw 
asked  o'  he  wher'  him  comin'  from  ?  '  From 
Megavissey,'  him  sayth.  Now  us  all  du  know 
es  th'  Megavissey  fowk  be  grate  swearers." 

208 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  Ay,  du  us  !  " 

"  So  th'  Enemy  minded  me,  an'  put  th' 
words  into  ma  mouth,  an'  aw  med  ma 
bargain  wi'  th'  Megavissey  man  this  fashion : 
Aw  wer'  t'  give  he  a  shillin',  an'  he  wer'  t' 
do  th'  swearin'  as  aw  dare  not  do.  '  For 
your  soul  it  be  well  seasoned/  aw  says  to 
un  ;  '  an'  will  stand  singein',  while  mine  't 
be  as  tender  as  a  biled  owl.'  En  him  tuke 
th'  shillin',  en  sweareth  as  brimstone  an  oath 
as  iver  aw  heerd,  en  wint  on  his  way.  En 
aw  did  feel  mightily  relieved.  But  after, 
that  same  night,  i'  th'  quiet  o'  ma  chamber, 
shame  came  on  ma,  an'  Repentance — hot 
an'  heavy.  Aw  had  paltered  wi'  th'  Master 
as  bin  so  trew  t'  ma  ;  aw  had  soiled  ma  own 
soul,  en  plunged  th'  soul  o'  that  poor  sinner 
from  Megavissey  deeper  into  the  Pit.  Fallen 
fro'  Grace,  aw  stand  t'  night  before  'ee  all, 
th'  ashes  on  ma  white  hairs — th'  coals  o' 
fire  gnawin'  at  ma  heart — a  humbled  man." 

Sobs  broke  out  amongst  the  listeners, 
even  Lady  Jane  felt  a  sympathetic  tight- 
ness at  the  throat,  as  the  old  minister  bade 
his  people  pray  for  him,  and  they  prayed 
both  fervently  and  loudly. 

209  14 


XXX 

THE  old  minister  remained  on  his  knees  with 
his  face  hidden  in  his  knotted,  labour-scarred 
hands.  Suddenly  he  started  up,  his  face 
transfigured,  his  white  locks  radiating  from 
his  face  as  though  blown  backwards  by  some 
wind  of  miraculous  sending.  He  cried  out 
hysterically  : 

"  It  ha'  come — it  ha'  come  !  Fallen  from 
heaven,  like  th'  dew  on  parchin'  earth ! 
Forgiveness — pardon,  sinkin'  into  ma  hard 
heart  en  softenin'  it,  cleansin'  an'  purifyin' 
ma  sin-stained  soul.  Oh,  if  heer  t'  night 
ther'  be  any  fowk  'at  be  sore  burdened  in 
sin,  let  en  take  courage.  If  there  be  any 
weighed  down  in  grief  an'  dole  as  needin' 
comfort,  let  en  knaw  as  th'  comfort  be  close 
at  hand.  Th'  Man  o'  Sorrows  is  wi'  us  to- 
night, heer  i'  this  lattle  place.  Let  us 
wrestle  wi'  Him  as  Jacob  did  wi'  th',  angel, 
for  virtue  is  in  His  garments  t'  cleanse  an' 

310 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

t'  heal.  Come  up.  Don't  'ee  delay.  Come 
to  th'  Mercy  seat — confess,  and  be  forgiven. 
For  He  is  faithful — faithful,  an'  of  many 
marcies.  Come  !  " 

There  was  a  stir  among  the  sobbing  women. 
One  got  up — it  was  Joan  Melhuish — and 
went  forward,  and  knelt  at  the  platform  rail. 
She  was  weeping.  The  old  minister  stretched 
trembling  hands  above  her  bowed  head,  and 
called  on  others  to  follow  her  example. 
Aunt  Hosanna  and  Miller  Job  followed  her. 
The  excitement  was  becoming  intense,  when, 
with  a  kind  of  rush,  a  broad-shouldered, 
manly  figure,  with  yellow  curls  above  the 
neat  blue  guernsey,  made  its  way  through 
the  throng,  and  joined  the  penitents.  Eja- 
culations, cries,  and  sobs  broke  out  on  every 
side. 

"  Clara  !  "  whispered  Octavia.  "  My  child, 
what  is  it  ?  " 

But  Clara  did  not  hear.  She  had  risen 
to  her  feet,  with  white  face  and  gleaming 
eyes.  She  was  being  drawn  from  her  com- 
panions as  if  by  some  irresistible  influence, 
when  Octavia  caught  her  in  her  arms,  and 
passed  her  hands  before  her  eyes.  Then  she 
broke  into  hysterical  weeping,  and  Miss  Wall 

3ii  14* 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

led  her  away  into  the  open  air.     The  others 
followed. 

"  If  I  had  only  known/'  remarked  Lady 
Jane,  emphatically,  "  that  sensitive  child 
should  never  have  been  subjected  to  such 
an  experience." 

She  made  her  remark  to  empty  air.  Fanny 
Dormer  was  not,  as  she  had  expected,  by 
her  side.  She  came  running  up  as  Lady  Jane 
halted,  out  of  breath,  but  unabashed  as 
ever. 

"  Mr.    Polwheal    stopped    me    to    inquire 

after   Mr.   Vesper's   health,"   she   explained. 

'  He   is   a   tenant   of  his,  and  it  is  natural 

that  he  should  take  an  interest  in  him.     Don't 

you  think  so  ?  " 

Lady  Jane  gave  a  kind  of  snort.  They 
had  arrived  at  the  Killigarth  garden  gate, 
and  as  they  crossed  the  little  bridge  in  the 
gathering  darkness,  and  climbed  the  garden 
path,  she  did  not  make  any  further  remark. 
Octavia  and  Clara  had  passed  into  the 
house  before  them ;  Rosevear  alone  met 
them  on  the  threshold. 

"  Gracious  !  "  cried  Fanny,  in  the  high 
accents  of  surprise.  "  How  pale  you  look  ! 
What  has  happened  ?  " 

212 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

Something  must  have  happened. 

Something  had  happened.  It  was  quite 
clear,  even  to  Lady  Jane,  that  Miss  Trelaw- 
ney  was  out  of  temper.  Never  had  she 
seen  a  look  upon  Rosevear's  face  at  all 
resembling  the  look  with  which  she  now 
favoured  Fanny  ;  never  had  she  seen  that 
usually  unabashed  young  person  quail  under 
any  human  glance  as  she  now  quailed  under 
the  fire  of  those  indignant  eyes. 

Lady  Jane  asked  a  question.  She  said, 
as  they  followed  Miss  Trelawney  into  the 
long  parlour,  where  supper  was  already  laid, 
and  fire  and  candles  burned  cheerily,  "  Has 
anything  happened  to  Mr.  Vosper  ?  " 

Rosevear  Trelawney  answered,  "  Mr.  Vos- 
per is  not  here.  He  has  left  the  house." 

"  Left  the  house !  and  upon  his  first 
day  of  convalescence  ?  "  cried  Lady  Jane. 
"  What  can  be  the  reason  for  such  an  im- 
prudent proceeding  ?  " 

Rosevear  answered  coldly  and  contemptu- 
ously : 

"  Don't  ask  me,  Lady  Jane.  Miss  Fanny 
Dormer  will  be  able  to  supply  you  with  the 
required  information." 

Again  she  pierced  the  wincing  Fanny  with 
213 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

the  lightning  of  her  eye,  but  by  this  time 
Fanny  had  picked  up  a  little,  and  was  able 
to  retaliate. 

"  It's  all  very  well  to  glare  at  me,"  she 
protested.  "  What  have  I  done  that  is  so 
dreadful,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  " 

"  You  shall  hear,"  said  Rosevear,  sternly. 
"  Lady  Jane,  as  an  honourable  woman,  I 
ask  you  what  is  your  opinion  of  the  woman 
who  writes  letters — encourages  addresses — 
in  another's  name  ;  who  receives  presents, 
still  personating  that  other  woman  ?  " 

'  They  were  only  bouquets,"  expostulated 
Fanny,  "  and  I  buried  them  all  under  the 
gooseberry  bushes  by  the  arbour.  The  whole 
thing  was  pure  philanthropy — on  my  part." 

"  Pure  philanthropy !  >J  Rosevear  re- 
peated, scornfully. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,"  cried  the  agitated 
Lady  Jane,  "  explain  !  " 

"  You,  with  Octavia,  Clara,  and  this 
philanthropic  female  forger,"  said  Rosevear, 
bitterly,  "  went  to  Porthporra  Wesley  an 
Chapel  this  evening.  I  and  Marjory  stayed 
at  home.  Mr.  Bevill  called  to  see  his  patient 
an  hour  or  two  later,  and  when  he  came 
downstairs,  as  it  was  growing  dark,  Marjory 

214 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

volunteered  to  accompany  him  with  the 
cellar  lantern '  as  far  as  the  garden  bridge. 
She  did  not  return  for  a  considerable  time." 

"  Teh  !  "'  Fanny  giggled.  Rosevear  froze 
the  erring  girl  with  another  look,  and  con- 
tinued : 

"  I  sat  here  in  the  window  with  my  work. 
I  was  making  a — a  new  sling  for  the  arm  of 
the — patient  upstairs " 

Fanny  giggled  again. 

"  When  the  door  opened/'  Miss  Trelawney 
went  on,  ignoring  the  offender,  "  and  Mr. 
Vosper  appeared,  fully  dressed." 

"  Well,  it  isn't  likely "  Fanny  began. 

"  I  expostulated  with  him  upon  the  rash- 
ness of  his  action,"  said  Rosevear,  pointedly 
addressing  Lady  Jane.  "  He — he  said  that 
my  withdrawal  of  my — my  attendance  on 
him  had  caused  him  uneasiness.  He  was 
afraid,  he  said,  that  he  had  offended  me. 
And  then  he  went  on,"  continued  Rosevear 
with  gleaming  eyes,  "  to  make  love  to  me. 
And  when  I  forbade  him  even  to  address  me 
in  such  terms  again,  he  repeated  that  in 
past  days  I  had  encouraged  him.  Given 
him — him  !  REASON  TO  HOPE  !  " 

"  Gracious  !  "  cried  Lady  Jane. 
215 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  He  said — he  dared  to  aver/'  cried  Rose- 
vear,  "  that  he  had  proof — in  my  own  hand- 
writing, that  I  had  not  at  one  time  regarded 
him  with  the  contempt  and  aversion  I  now 
expressed.  And  when  I  challenged  him  to 
produce  any  such  letter  or  letters — he  brought 
out  a  packet  of  papers — his  pocket  was 
bursting  with  them,  in  fact.  Notes,  coquet- 
tish, encouraging,  even  affectionate  " — she 
shuddered — "  addressed  to  him,  signed  with 
my  initials,  and  written  by  Miss  Fanny 
Dormer.  See  for  yourself."  She  tossed 
them  into  Lady  Jane's  lap.  "  You  recognise 
the  handwriting,  as  I  did  ?  You  would  have 

done  and  said  in  my  place  what  I ?  " 

She  panted.  "  He  is  gone.  Mr.  Vosper  is, 
at  least,  a  gentleman.  It  was  inadvisable 
that  he  should  remain  here.  The  Mill 
wagonette  took  him  back  to  Trelawney. 
His  property  shall  be  sent  after  him  to- 
morrow. He  may  forget  what  has  hap- 
pened ;  but  for  me,  who  have  been  shamed, 
degraded — insulted,  there  is  no  forgetfulness." 

Lady  Jane  rose  majestically.  She  turned 
to  Fanny. 

"  Oh,  I  am  a  reprehensible  person,  I  know 
that  very  well,"  said  the  culprit,  plucking 

216 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

up  courage.  "  I  have  done  very  wrong  and 
I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  repentant,  but  I 
am  not.  Not  a  bit.  I'm  only  vexed  that 
everything  has  not  turned  out  as  I  intended. 
I  ought  to  have  told  The  Usurper  the  truth, 
and  made  him  burn  the  papers,  and  then  he 
could  have  begun  all  over  again.  I  was 
sorry  for  him,  yes,  sorry  for  him,  so  rich  as 
he  is,  so  good-looking,  and  so  much  in  love 
with  you.  It  was  wicked  waste  of  an  oppor- 
tunity another  girl  would  have  jumped  at 
when  you  turned  up  your  nose  at  him.  And 
so  I  thought  I  would  give  the  poor  thing  a 
little  hope  to  live  on  until  something  better 
panned  out,  as  Americans  say.  Something 
better  did  pan  out.  He  was  lucky  enough  to 
get  smashed,  and  I  was  kind  enough  to  bring 
him  here  to  be  mended,  and  you  were  Chris- 
tian enough  to  look  after  him,  nurse  him,  and 
be  in  a  general  way  his  guide,  philosopher, 
and  friend."  She  giggled  again.  "  The  ser- 
pent had  fairly  wriggled  himself  into  our 
Paradise  in  defiance  of  Octavia  and  the 
Rules.  And  what  has  been  the  result  ? 
Marjory  has  curled  her  hair  and  regularly 
got  up  to  breakfast.  Lady  Jane  has  dawned 
on  us  in  garments  of  unaccustomed  splendour. 

217 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

I  have  powdered  my  nose  regularly,  and 
pulled  in  my  waist ;  even  Octavia  has  blos- 
somed into  frills  and  fal-lals.  And  why  ? 
BECAUSE  THERE  WAS  A  MAN  IN  THE  HOUSE." 
She  slapped  the  table.  "  A  real  live  man 
— and  in  our  hearts  we  were  glad  of  it. 
Women  are  built  that  way,  and  it  is  too  late 
to  alter  them.  They  droop — as  we  have 
drooped — without  the  stimulus  of  Man's 
society ;  they  perk  up,  as  we  have  perked 
up,  when  the  iron-handed  oppressor  is  in 
the  neighbourhood.  I  may  be  coarse,"  said 
Fanny,  defiantly,  "  but  I  am  not  a  humbug. 
You  may  be  angry  with  me  now,  Rosevear, 
and  I  suppose  I  deserve  it,  but  you'll  forgive 
me  one  of  these  days — WHEN  YOU  MARRY 
MR.  VOSPER." 

She  walked  out  of  the  room  defiantly  and 
banged  the  door  upon  Lady  Jane's  indignant 
consternation  and  Rosevear's  speechless 
wrath. 


XXXI 

THE  atmosphere  had  the  cold  bright  crisp- 
ness  of  November,  the  chrysanthemums  and 
dahlias  were  past  their  prime..  The  hardy 
yellow  roses  yet  lingered  on  though  the 
hedge-fruit  ripened  beside  them.  More  than 
one  fierce  south-westerly  gale  had  kept  the 
fishing  boats  close  prisoners  in  Porthporra 
Haven,  and  driven  the  complaining  seagulls 
inland  to  dispute  the  spoil  of  the  freshly 
turned  fallows  with  starlings,  rooks,  and  jays. 
Life  at  Killigarth  went  on  soberly.  In  the 
absence  of  Rosevear  Trelawney,  who  had 
gone  on  a  visit  to  friends  in  town,  the 
L.L.C.F.F.F.G.  felt  how  much  her  gay  light- 
heartedness  had  contributed  to  the  common 
stock  of  cheer.  Marjory  Dormer  had  also 
taken  wing.  Little  Clara's  quiet  face  was 
missing  from  its  accustomed  corner  by  the 
hearth.  The  girl's  health  had  failed  strangely 
of  late,  and  Lady  Jane  Pegram,  in  the  hope 
that  change  of  air  might  work  the  desired 

219 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

alteration  for  the  better,  had  taken  her  to 
Llwddllm  under  her  own  fostering  wing. 
The  latest  bulletin  from  Wales  recorded  a 
decided  improvement. 

"  And  a  good  thing  too,"  said  Fanny 
Dormer,  throwing  Lady  Jane's  letter  back 
to  Octavia  Wall.  "  The  child  seemed 
dwindling  away  before  one's  eyes,  like  the 
people  in  '  The  Hunting  of  the  Snark,'  who 
happened  to  come  across  a  Boojum. 

'  But  oh,  beamish  nephew,  beware  of  the  day, 
If  the  Snark  prove  a  Boojum — for  then 
You  will  softly  and  suddenly  vanish  away, 
And  never  be  heard  of  again  !  ' 

Clarrikins  will  come  home  as  bright  as  a 
button." 

"  Little  good  that  will  be  if  the  thing  is  to 
begin  all  over  again  !  "  remarked  Miss  Wall. 
Her  brow  was  knitted  and  her  spectacles 
looked  less  bright  than  usual. 

<f  You  talk  in  parables,"  said  Fanny,  "  and 
life  is  not  long  enough  to  spend  in  digging 
for  meanings.  You  speak,  and  have  spoken 
all  along,  as  if  Clara  had  been  subjected  to 
some  mysterious  persecution." 

Octavia  at  no  other  time  would  have  felt 
inclined  to  select  Fanny  for  a  confidante. 

220 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

But  they  had  spent  a  fortnight  tete-a-tete, 
the  duet  being  only  occasionally  converted 
into  a  trio  by  the  addition  of  the  profound 
bass  boasted  by  Mr.  Polwheal,  or  the 
clerically-pitched  baritone  of  the  Rector, 
Mr.  Carew.  And,  if  adversity  brings  us 
into  contact  with  strange  bed-fellows,  solitude 
will  induce  us  to  open  our  hearts  to  the  most 
unlikely  confidants.  Octavia  opened  hers, 
thenceforth  ;  imparted  to  Fanny  the  secret 
of  the  mysterious  visitation  to  which  Clara 
had  been  subjected,  and  related  Rosevear's 
legend  of  the  Lame  Lady. 

"  A — real — ghost !  "  said  Fanny,  slowly. 
"  Promenading  the  premises  night  after 
night ;  and  I  have  never  seen  her.  None 
of  you  have  seen  her — except  Clara.  Has 
nobody  watched  ?  You,  Octavia,  with  your 
sturdy  common-sense,  your  contempt  of 
superstitions,  your  absolute  disbelief  in  rap- 
ping spirits  and  juggling  Mahatmas,  surely 
you  have  watched  !  " 

"  I  !  No.  I  have  harboured  the  intention 
of  doing  so,"  explained  Octavia,  "  on  more 
occasions  than  one,  but  something  has  always 
interfered.  For  one  thing,  there  have  been 
the  books  of  the  Community  which  Lady 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

Jane  confided  to  my  care  on  leaving.  For 
another,  the  nights  are  chilly,  and " 

Fanny  giggled. 

"  But,  as  it  appears  absolutely  necessary 
that  something  should  be  done  before  Clara 
returns/'  Octavia  continued,  "  I  have  spoken 
to  Mr.  Carew  — " 

"  To  the  Rector  ?  " 

"  — on  the  subject.  And  he  has  proposed 
to — in  short,  he  has  deemed  it  advisable  to 
take  certain  steps " 

Octavia  came  to  a  dead  stop.  Fanny  rose 
to  her  feet,  and  regarded  Miss  Wall  with  a 
broad  stare  of  curiosity.  Under  the  scrutiny, 
Octavia's  naturally  pale  complexion  assumed 
a  rosy  tinge. 

"  Certain  steps  ?  "  Fanny  whistled — siffla- 
tion  was  an  accomplishment  of  hers  which 
Lady  Jane  profoundly  disapproved  of.  "  Do 
you — as  a  young  female  person  living  in  the 
nineteenth  century — actually  mean  that  the 
Rector  is  going  to  attempt  to  lay,  or  exorcise, 
this  apparition  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Carew's  services  have  often  been 
solicited  for  the  same  purpose.  Perhaps  you 
are  not  aware  that  in  the  ancient  Rubric 

"  Mercy  on  me !  Octavia  quoting 
222 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

rubrics !  "  Fanny  elevated  her  hands  and 
eyebrows. 

"  Mediaeval — Venerable  Bede — Forms  of 
Exorcism — unclean  spirits — mentioned — Holy 
Writ/'  Octavia  continued,  rather  inco- 
herently. 

"  Have  a  little  pity.  And  when  does  His 
Holiness — I  mean  the  Reverend  Lemuel  Carew 
— intend,  with  bell,  book,  and  candle 
asperges,  holy  water,  and  all  the  rest  of  the 
paraphernalia,  to  put  an  end  to  the  tricks 
and  manners  of  this  hobbling  sprite  ?  " 

"  He  was  good  enough  to  promise  to  come 
to-night." 

"  Good.  You,  of  course,  intend  to  be 
present  at  the  ceremony.  So  do  I.  You 
will  have  His  Reverence  at  hand  to  cling  to 
in  case  the  Lame  Lady  should  prove  con- 
tumacious. But  who  is  there  to  look  after 
me  ?  Unless  Mr.  Polwheal  should  happen 
to  drop  in  !  Admirable  idea.  I  will  send 
a  little  note  up  to  Peniel,  inviting  its  master 
to  come  and  bring  a  bludgeon.  Pity  the 
community  are  so  scattered.  We  might 
have  issued  cards  to  the  county  for  an 
Esoteric  At  Home.  '  A  Ghost  will  be  Laid 
in  the  Course  of  the  Evening  by  the  Reverend 

223 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

L.  Carew/  That  would  look  nice  in  copper- 
plate characters  in  the  corner  of  the  docu- 
ment." 

Thus  Fanny  mocked.  But  Octavia's  pur- 
pose was  settled,  her  determination  not  to 
be  lightly  shaken.  Fanny  also  adhered  to 
her  announced  course  of  action.  The  shades 
of  evening  fell,  and  brought  with  them 
both  the  Rev.  Lemuel  Carew  and  Mr.  Joshua 
Polwheal. 


224 


XXXII 

"  I  HOPE  you  can  bear  being  pinched,"  said 
Miss  Fanny  Dormer,  "  because  Mr.  Carew 
particularly  wishes  that  nobody  should  speak 
or  scream,  and  one  must  give  vent  to  one's 
feelings  somehow,  in  moments  of  great 
tension." 

"To  be  pinched  by  you,  Miss,"  said  Mr. 
Polwheal,  upon  whose  stout,  grey  frieze- 
covered  arm  the  fair  fingers  of  Miss  Fanny 
were  confidingly  resting,  "  could  not  be  re- 
garded as  otherwise  than  a  privilege." 

It  was  a  dark,  damp  evening,  and  the  path 
upon  which  they  walked  was  ankle-deep 
in  the  fallen  leaves  of  the  orchard- trees. 
There  was  no  wind  to  speak  of,  and  the  moon 
was  trying  to  shine  through  a  veil  of  foggy 
vapours. 

"  Octavia  and  the  Reverend  are  nowhere 
to  be  seen." 

'  They  are — considerably  ahead  of  us," 
said  Mr.  Polwheal,  "  and  t>eing  dressed  in 

225  15 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

dark  colours  are  not  to  be  easily  distin- 
guished. We  are  to  all  intents  and  purposes 
as  much  alone  as  if  we  were  in — Central 
Africa,  for  instance,  surrounded  by  furious 
tribes  of  Baobabs  and  other  aborigines  whose 
names  are  unpleasant  to  pronounce  and  diffi- 
cult to  remember." 

"  I  rather  think/'  corrected  Fanny,  "  that 
a  Baobab  is  a  kind  of  tree." 

Mr.  Polwheal  sighed  with  a  kind  of  melan- 
choly admiration.  "  You  have  a  good 
memory,  Miss  Dormer,"  he  said.  "  Mine,  as 
my  poor  Drusilla  used  to  say,  is  better 
framed  for  forgetting  than  for  remembering. 
And,  indeed,  considering  that  I  am  generally 
unable  to  recollect  the  proper  titles  of  my 
own  olive-branches,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered 
at  if  I  call  a  foreign  tree  out  of  its  name." 
He  sighed  again,  gloomily,  and  Fanny  gave 
the  arm  on  which  her  fingers  rested  an  en- 
couraging pressure.  The  coy  manifestation 
had  an  instantaneous  effect  on  Mr.  Pol- 
wheal. He  shifted  the  arm  to  Fanny's 
waist,  and  as  Fanny  made  no  attempt  to 
evade  the  chaste  embrace,  the  stalwart  yeo- 
man blew  a  tremendous  sigh.  '  This  recalls 
associations,"  he  ^said,  feelingly,  "connected 

226 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

with  days  when  I  was  not  what  I  now  am. 
If  my  Brasilia  is  at  this  moment  observing 
us  from  the  skies,  her  memory  will  be  irre- 
sistibly carried  back  to  the  days  of  our 
courtship.  Miss  Dormer — Fanny — if  I  may 
call  you  so — dare  I  entertain  the — the  vision 
that  your  form  will  ever  fill  the  place  of  hers 
who — who  has — soared  from  the  midst  of  her 
young  family  into  a  higher — a  higher  sphere  ? 
Will  you  be  Mrs.  Polwheal  of  Peniel,  mistress 
of  my  house  and  mother  to  my  children  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Polwheal !  "  Fanny  gurgled. 

"  Joshua,"  urged  the  wooer. 

"  Joshua.  Can  I  be  all  that  you  expect  of 
me  ?  Will  Thomas " 

"  Thomas  is  the  eldest !  "  said  Mr.  Pol- 
wheal, parenthetically. 

"  Ephraim " 

"  Ephraim  is  the  second,"  nodded  Mr. 
Polwheal. 

"  Janetta  and  Mary " 

"  Janetta  and  Mary  being  twins,  come  third 
and  fourth." 

"  William,  Jane,  Oliver,  Joshua,  Harriet, 
Brasilia,  Samuel,  and  George  accept  me  as 
their  mother's  successor  ?  " 

"  I  knew  it,"  said  Mr.  Polwheal,  trium- 
227  15* 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

phantly,    "  she    has    named    all    the    twelve 
of    'em,    consecutively,    without    a    mistake. 
The  whole  of  Cornwall — the  United  Kingdom 
hasn't   her    equal.      And   I'm   a    lucky— 
What's  this  ?  " 

"  Hush !  "  whispered  Fanny,  in  awe- 
stricken  accents. 

For  something  was  coming  towards  them, 
soundlessly  and  rapidly,  over  the  damp  car- 
pet of  leaves,  something  that  showed  white 
in  the  watery  moonbeams,  a  human  figure 
unmistakably,  moving  with  a  hobbling  gait, 
bending  under  a  burden. 

Fanny  opened  her  mouth  to  scream,  but  no 
sound  came.  She  only  clutched,  desperately, 
the  stout  arm  that  supported  her.  But  her 
mainstay  was  roughly  withdrawn,  as  the 
undaunted  farmer,  brandishing  his  stout  stick, 
hurled  himself  upon  the  Lame  Lady. 

*  *  *  *  * 

There  was  a  momentary  scuffle,  and  a 
shrill  squeal. 

"  Aw  dear  !  aw  deary  me  !  he  be  a  killing 
o'  I  !  An'  taters  en  awl,  a  free  gift  from 
Mester  Pengwillian  !  " 

*  *  *  *  * 

228 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

Fanny  recognised  the  quavering  septua- 
genarian accents.  Fanny  guessed  that  the 
mysterious  marauder  of  orchard  and  garden, 
the  blood-curdling  hobbling  apparition  that 
had  made  havoc  of  poor  Clara's  peace  were 
one  and  the  same  ;  united  in  the  venerable 
person  of  Dicky  Daisy.  She  threw  back 
her  head  and  burst  out  with  peal  on  peal  of 
hysterical  laughter.  She  thought  of  Octavia's 
solemn  revelation  ;  of  the  Rector  with  his 
little  black  MS.  copy  of  the  Forms  of  Exor- 
cism thoughtfully  appointed  by  the  ancient 
Fathers  for  the  quieting  of  restless  spooks, 
and  she  laughed  till  the  tears  ran  down 
her  cheeks.  Later  on,  when  Dicky  Daisy 
and  the  sackful  of  pieces  de  conviction  (French 
in  this  instance  for  parsnips,  cauliflowers, 
onions  and  beets),  had  been  delivered 
into  the  hands  of  Miller  Job  for  safe 
detention  until  the  morning,  she  laughed 
again. 

"  For,"  said  Octavia,  as  the  two  sat  down 
to  supper,  having  bidden  both  priest  and 
farmer  farewell  until  the  morrow,  "  it  all 
happened  so  suddenly.  Walking  a  con- 
siderable distance  in  advance  of  you,  Mr. 
Carew  and  myself  reached  the  orchard- 

229 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

hedge  and  turned  b'ack  again  upon  the  path. 
Lemuel — I  mean  the  Rector — was  bending 
over  me,  speaking  in  low  earnest  tones  about 
the  necessity  of  relying  upon  another  arm 
than  the  arm  of  flesh  " — Fanny  spluttered 
— "  when  we  saw — directly  in  front  of  us — 
it  seemed  to  spring  out  of  the  earth,  the 
ghostly  emanation  we  had  been  prepared  for. 
Lem — Mr.  Carew — with  striking  calmness  and 
self-possession,  at  once  commenced  to  intone 
the  exorcism,  when,  as  I  am  sure  might 
have  happened  to  anyone,  his  memory  un- 
fortunately failed  him  in  the  middle  of  the 
first  sentence,  and  he  was  obliged  to  continue 
with  the  Greek  alphabet.  Before,  however, 
he  had  got  as  far  as  Upsilon,  the  apparition 
— which  we  now  know  to  have  been  none  at 
all,  but  simply  the  figure  of  a  dishonest  old 
villager  in  a  white  smock-frock,  carrying  a 
bagful  of  stolen  vegetables — had  vanished. 
The  rest  you  know.  In  fact,  the  whole  thing 
has  ended  ridiculously,  as  it  was  bound  to 
do.  Ghost  indeed !  I  have  half  a  mind  to 
shake  Clara  for  her  stupidity.  As  if  there 
could  possibly  be  such  a  thing  as  a 
ghost !  " 

"  What  ?   in  spite  of  the  First  Ritual,  and 
230 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

the  Ancient  Rubrics,  and  the  authority  of 
the    Venerable    What's    his-name  ?     not    to 
mention  the  Rev.  Lemuel  Carew  ?  " 
Octavia  evaded  making  any  reply. 


231 


XXXIII 

IT  was  pleasant  to  be  at  home  again.  Lady 
Jane  and  Marjory  Dormer  felt  that,  and 
Clara's  bright  eyes  grew  brighter  as  the 
wagonette  which  conveyed  them  from  the 
station  turned  off  the  Pencarrick  road,  and 
the  first  bend  in  the  steep  descent  showed 
the  grey  house  perched  on  the  valley  side, 
against  its  background  of  sere  orchard-trees, 
with  the  blue  smoke  ascending  ki  a  faint 
straight  line  above  the  pitch  of  its  red-tiled 
roof-gables.  Then  there  came  the  stoppage 
at  the  well-known  gate,  and  presently  the 
chilled  wanderers  were  gathered  in  the  long 
panelled  parlour,  where  a  great  pile  of  apple 
logs  blazed  on  the  wide  brick  hearth,  re- 
sponding to  Aunt  'Sanna's  joyful  exclama- 
tions, Joan's  soft  murmurs  of  welcome,  and 
Octavia's  warm  greetings. 

"But  where  is  Fanny  ?     Did  you  not  see 
her  at  the  station  ?  " 

232 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

Octavia's  question  met  with  an  all-round 
negative.  Nobody  had  seen  Fanny. 

"  She  went  over  with  the  wagonette  early 
this  morning,  with  the  avowed  intention  of 
doing  a  little  shopping.  Of  course  I  expected 
that  she  would  meet  you,  and  return  with  you." 

"  Not  a  bone  or  feather  of  her  did  we  set 
eyes  on,"  cried  Marjory.  "  The  platform 
was  perfectly  vacant,  except  for  a  crying  baby 
and  a  couple  of  yokels." 

"  Can  she  have  lost  her  way  ?  " 

"  Dear  Lady  Jane,  who  could  possibly 
lose  their  way  in  a  town  the  size  of  Pen- 
carrick  ?  " 

"  Some  accident,  perhaps.  Or  Fanny 
might  have  met  some  friends.  The  boy 
who  drove  the  wagonette  may  be  able  to  give 
us  a  clue  to  her  whereabouts." 

The  boy  was  interrogated,  but  his  tardy 
replies  threw  but  little  light  on  the  subject. 
He  had  driven  the  young  lady  into  Pen- 
carrick  that  morning,  had  arrived  there  by  a 
quarter  to  eleven,  and  deposited  his  fair 
burden  by  her  special  behest  on  the  steps 
of  the  Town  Hall. 

"  And  driv  away  then,  quick,  an'  wi'out 
luking  round,"  said  Master  Oliver  Job,  "  an* 

233 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

pratty  nigh  smashed  into  Farmer  Polwheal, 
as  wer'  whippin'  sharp-like  roun'  th'  cornder 
i'  his  new  red- wheeled  gig.  An'  him  larfed 
an'  throwed  I  half  a  crownd.  En  th'  Regis- 
trar, Mr.  Jobson,  as  wer'  sittin'  alongside  of 
he — he  larfed  too." 

"  What  could  Farmer  Polwheal  want  with 
the  Registrar  ? "  Octavia  murmured,  with 
eyes  that  dilated  behind  her  spectacles. 

"  My  dear  Octavia,  a  thousand  things," 
said  Lady  Jane.  "  He  has  a  large  family,  for 
instance.  Perhaps  some  juvenile  ailment  has 
ended  fatally  in  the  case  of  one  of  those 
children,  who  are  continually  running  wild 
over  the  country  side.  Or — now  I  think  of 
it — the  Registrar's  office  is  at  the  Town 
Hall.  Mr.  Polwheal  may  have  simply  given 
him  a  lift  as  far  as  his  place  of  business. 
Or — I  must  beg,  Octavia,  that  you  will  not 
look  as  if — as  if  you  were  seeing  something 
dreadful.  I  will  not  say  a  ghost,  because, 
though  many  of  the  most  ancient  Conserva- 
tive families  have  their  beliefs,  well-founded 
beliefs,  in  respect  of  spiritual  appearances, 
my  own  credulity  has  been  sadly  shocked 
by  that  scandalous  affair,  the  particulars  of 
which  you  detailed  in  your  last  letter.  As 

234 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

for  Dicky  Buttercup,  or  whatever  the  old 
wretch  calls  himself,  he  should  afford  a 
moral  example  to  the  whole  village,  in  con- 
nection with  a  pair  of  stocks  and  a  whipping- 
post, if  those  good  old  feudal  appliances  were 
still  in  existence,  and  I  were  Squire  Vosper 
of  Trelawney." 

"As  it  is,  Mr.  Polwheal  has  pensioned  the 
old  man  and  his  wife  on  the  condition  that 
Dicky  refrains  from  asserting  his  imaginary 
rights  in  the  matter  of  the  Killigarth  cab- 
bages and  potatoes.  It  is  certain  that  appro- 
priation does  not  present  itself  to  him  in  the 
light  of  dishonesty.  '  Master  Pengwillian ' 
gave  him  permission  to  take  as  much  as  he 
liked,  and  we  are,  in  his  opinion,  mere  inter- 
lopers. By  the  way,  have  you  heard  from 
Rosevear  ?  She  has  written  to  me,  and 
returns  to  us  to-morrow.  For  a  short  time, 
it  may  be.  She  is,  for  such  an  easy,  light- 
hearted  girl,  a  particularly  warm  and  enthu- 
siastic hater.  And  just  now  Fanny  is  void 
of  favour  in  her  eyes." 

"  It  was  an  unpardonable  trick.  But," 
Lady  Jane  spoke  with  dignified  conviction, 
"  I  believe — I  absolutely  believe — that  in 
doing  as  she  did,  she  meant  well." 

235 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  Perhaps  she  did.  Let  us  hope  that  the 
breach  between  her  and  Rosevear  will  be 
patched  up  by  degrees.  She  is  extraordinarily 
late,  by  the  way.  Can  anything  have  hap- 
pened to  her  ? " 

Aunt  Hosanna  entered  at  this  juncture. 
She  carried  on  a  japanned  tray  a  small  parcel 
wrapped  in  white  paper,  and  an  envelope, 
directed  in  Fanny's  well-known  and  some- 
what sprawly  characters  to  the  Limited 
Liability  Company  of  Female  Fruit  and 
Flower  Gardeners,  Killigarth  Farm. 

"It  is  directed  to  all  of  us,"  said  Octavia, 
lingering  the  missive  doubtfully.  "  It  seems 
to  me — perhaps  you  will  think  me  foolish — 
as  though  Fanny  had  had  a  piece  of  informa- 
tion to  impart,  of  such  a  nature,  that  while  it 
might  be  supported  by  the  company  collec- 
tively, one  unsupported  individual  might  sink 
under  the  shock." 

"  She  can't  have  had  an  accident !  "  cried 
Marjory,  with  incredulous  shrillness. 

"  If  she  has,  it  has  not  been  attended  with 
any  fatal  result,"  said  Lady  Jane,  shrewdly, 
"  or  she  would  not  have  been  able  to  write 
and  tell  us  about  it." 

"  It  seems  so  funny  ;  the  idea  of  her  writ- 
236 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

ing  to  the  whole  lot  of  us  in  that  fashion," 
hazarded  timid  little  Clara.  "  One  would 
almost  think  Mr.  Polwheal  had  inspired 
the  idea.  You  remember  his  proposal  ?  " 

A  sort  of  anticipatory  chill  coursed  down 
the  necks  of  all  present  as  Lady  Jane  opened 
Fanny's  missive,  and  read  as  follows  : 

"  Dear  Girls, — By  the  time  you  receive  this, 
I  shall  be  on  my  way  to  Paris " 

"  To  Paris  !  "  chorused  the  L.L.C.F.F. 
F.G. 

"  —with  Mr.  Polwheal  "- 

"  WITH  MR.  POLWHEAL  !  "- 

— to  whom  I  was  married  this  morning  at 
the  Registrar's  Office,  Pencarrick  Town  Hall. 
He  was  quite  fatherly,  if  not  more  so,  and 
we  breakfasted  with  him  after  the  ceremony. 
He  had  thoughtfully  provided  a  cake.  I  send 
you  the  customary  slice," — it  was  in  the  white 
paper  parcel  tied  up  with  satin  ribbon. 

"  Her  wedding  cake !  Well,  of  all  the 
audacity  !  " — 

"As  to  my  connection  with  the  Company, 
it  may  be  severed  or  not,  as  you  think 
pioper  ;  but  I  hope  you  will,  all  of  you — 
except  Rosevear,  who,  as  she  will  never 

237 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

marry  Mr.  Vosper,  will  naturally  never  for- 
give me — keep  a  kind  corner  in  your  hearts 
for  yours  ever  affectionately, 

"  FANNY  POLWHEAL." 

"  Fanny  Polwheal !  " 

"  And  there  is  a  postscript — l  Joshua  sends 
his  love.'  " 

"Joshua!    Oh!" 

"  And  here  is  something  written  in  the 
inside  corner.  '  Tell  Marjory  I  have  got 
there  before  her  after  all !  '  What  can  that 
mean  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  asserted  Marjory,  with  a 
curiously  vivid  blush.  She  hastily  hid  her 
left  hand  in  her  pocket  as  she  spoke.  No- 
body had  noticed  that  a  new  and  handsome 
ring  sparkled  on  the  engagement  finger. 

Thus  did  Fanny  strike  the  blow  she  had 
meditated  from  the  beginning.  Thus  was 
Rosevear  greeted,  upon  her  return,  with  the 
news  of  her  enemy's  voluntary  secession  from 
the  ranks  of  the  self-supporting,  strong- 
minded  sisterhood. 


,238 


XXXIV 

THE  night  of  the  Thursday  following  is  a 
notable  night  in  the  annals  of  Porthporra 
Haven,  by  reason  of  the  Great  Storm. 

The  day  itself  dawned  strangely,  with  a 
livid  sun  peering  uncannily  through  a  veil 
of  dense  white  fog.  Birds  forgot  to  chirp, 
and  huddled  with  head  under  wing  in  the 
gauze-veiled  hedges,  sheep  and  cattle  stood 
with  drooping  heads  turned  northwards, 
though  as  yet  there  was  only  a  faint,  keen 
breeze  blowing  at  intervals  out  of  the 
shrouded  south-west. 

Towards  noon  it  blew  harder ;  towards 
evening  a  perfect  hurricane.  In  Porthporra 
all  was  bustle  and  excitement,  and  mingled 
with  the  hoarse  roaring  of  the  gale  as  it 
tore  up  the  valley,  the  mumbling  and  growl- 
ing of  the  furious  sea,  were  shouts  of  men 
and  shrieks  of  women.  For  the  huge  waves 
overleapt  the  Peak  itself,  crowning  its 

239 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

jagged  head  in  derision  with  a  tangle  of 
sea-weed  and  raffled  cordage  from  a  wreck, 
and  smothered  the  quays  in  foam,  and 
knocked  the  fishing  boats  together  like  so 
many  cockle-shells.  The  tide  went  higher 
than  any  tide  had  done  in  twenty  years. 
Salt  water  swamped  the  ground-floor  of  the 
houses  in  the  main  street,  salt  water  drenched 
the  faces  of  those  who  looked  out  from  their 
windows  half  way  up  the  cliff  at  the  con- 
flict between  land  and  sea.  And  there 
seemed  no  prospect  of  things  getting  better 
— only  worse. 

The  sailors  and  fishermen  worked  like 
heroes,  hauling  damaged  boats  out  of  reach 
of  the  furious  billows,  removing  children 
and  the  household  goods  from  swamped 
dwellings ;  bronzed,  stern-lipped,  resolute, 
they  laboured  on,  knee-deep  in  rushing  water 
and  loose  shingle,  until  late  in  the  day.  Most 
stern,  most  silent,  most  untiring  of  all,  were 
the  two  Lenines,  father  and  son. 

Killigarth,  nestled  in  its  cup-like  valley, 
knew  little  but  that  a  fierce  wind  was  blowing 
strong  enough  to  shake  even  its  granite 
walls.  But  the  anxiety  of  Joan  and  Aunt 
Hosanna  was  manifest  in  their  faces,  and 

240 


'  Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

before  long  the  state  of  things  at  the  village 
had  reached  the  ears  of  Lady  Jane  and  the 
other  members  of  the  community.  Some 
of  the  washed-out  fishermen's  families 
needed  practical  help,  and  it  was  not  long 
before  Lady  Jane  and  her  companions, 
laden  with  baskets  of  necessaries,  and  ac- 
companied by  Joan,  carrying  a  bundle  of 
blankets,  were  on  their  way  down  the  valley 
road. 

Here  they  first  became  aware  of  the  terrific 
force  of  the  wind,  as  they  struggled,  breath- 
less, with  blinded  eyes  and  fluttering  dra- 
peries, upon  their  way.  Signs  of  devasta- 
tion became  apparent  on  the  very  outskirts 
of  the  village.  Men  and  women  were  going 
in  and  out  of  cottages,  staggering  under  rolls 
of  bedding  and  articles  of  household  use 
and  ornament.  The  main  street  was  strewn 
with  shingle  and  weed  at  every  recurrent 
rush  of  the  furious  tide,  and  masses  of 
masonry  and  fragments  of  boats  were  being 
dashed  hither  and  thither  in  the  yeasty  tur- 
moil nearer  to  the  strand. 

"  There  is  Huey  Lenine,"  shouted  Marjory, 
with  her  lips  close  to  Lady  Jane's  ear. 
"  How  grave  he  looks,  and  streaming  with 

241  16 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

wet  too.  He  must  have  been  in  the 
water." 

"  I  should  think  so  !  Good  heavens  !  " 
cried  Lady  Jane,  as,  with  a  resonant  crash, 
a  huge  wave  overleapt  the  Peak,  broke  upon 
its  rugged  summit,  and  streamed  down  its 
rocky  sides  in  a  thousand  foaming  waterfalls. 
"  A  little  more  of  this  and  the  entire  haven 
will  be  demolished,  every  house  a  wreck, 
every  boat  splintered  into  matchwood. 
See,  here  comes  another,"  as  a  fresh  Titan 
from  the  wild  world  of  waters  beyond  the 
rocky  barrier  launched  itself  upon  the 
haven. 

"  Wid  'ee  please,  'm  ?  " 

A  small  ragged  girl  was  pulling  at  Mar- 
jory's gown. 

"  What  is  it,  little  one  ?  Mother  sent  you  ? 
From  the  telegraph  office.  And  this  tele- 
gram is  for  me.  Who  can  have  sent  it  ?  " 
Marjory  tore  open  the  yellow  envelope,  and 
mastered  its  contents.  Then  she  turned 
deadly  pale  and  screamed. 

"Philip!  O  Philip!  Lady  Jane— Oc- 
tavia !  My  God,  what  will  become  of 
them  ?  " 

"  Of  whom  ? "  cried  Lady  Jane,  thor- 
242 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 


oughly  roused  and  alarmed.  She  snatched 
the  paper  that  Marjory  extended  to  her,  and 
deciphered  the  following  message  : 

"  Bevill,  Plymouth. 

"To  Miss  Marjory  Dormer,  Killigarth,  near   Porth- 
porra. 


Vosper 

and 

self 

mean 

to 

sail 

yacht 

over 

this 

morning 

f°ggy 

but          expect 

will 

clear 

later 

couldn't 

wait 

save 

my 

life 

garden 

gate 

to-night 

ever 

faithful 

Philip."  ; 

"  A  very  expensive  telegram/'  observed 
Lady  Jane,  soothingly.  "  I  had  no  idea 
you  were  on  such  intimate  terms — I  might 
say  affectionate  terms — with  Mr.  Philip 
Bevill." 

"  We   are  engaged,"   cried   Marjory,   with 
blazing  eyes  and  white  cheeks. 
Lady  Jane  relented. 

243  16* 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

"  There  is  no  cause  for  alarm,  I  trust.  I 
hope — I  sincerely  hope  that  Mr.  Bevill  and 
Mr.  Vosper  were  wise  enough  not  to  attempt 
to  start  in  the  face  of  such  weather.  In- 
deed, how  could  they  ?  " 

"  You  forget,  it  was  dead  calm  this  morn- 
ing, only  for  the  fog,"  Marjory  said,  hoarsely. 
She  looked  and  spoke  unlike  the  careless, 
lazy  Marjory  they  all  knew  so  well.  "  And 
Philip  is  rash,  terribly  rash  and  headstrong, 
though  he  is  a  medical  man."  She  burst 
into  tears  as  she  spoke.  Clara  tried  to  com- 
fort her,  and  Lady  Jane  and  Octavia  turned 
to  Rosevear  for  counsel  in  extremity. 

But  Rosevear  had  gone  from  them.  With 
down-bent  head,  and  every  nerve  of  her  lithe, 
active  figure  strained  to  resist  and  give 
battle  to  the  onset  of  the  furious  gale,  she 
was  making  her  way  up  the  steep  cliff-path 
towards  the  whitewashed  shelter,  where  the 
coastguard  and  his  telescope  had  taken 
refuge. 

"  She  will  be  blown  over  the  cliff  and 
killed  to  a  dead  certainty,"  groaned  Lady 
Jane,  with  the  calmness  of  desperation. 

Little  Clara  Currey  abandoned  the  weep- 
ing Marjory  to  Octavia's  care.  She  touched 

244 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

Lady  Jane  lightly  on  the  arm,  saying  "  I 
will  go  after  her  and  bring  her  back." 

"  For  Heaven's  sake/'  began  the  agonised 
lady,  but  Clara  was  already  out  of  hearing. 
As  the  slight  figure  wavered  in  its  first  essay 
upon  the  dangerous  path  which  Rosevear 
was  steadily  traversing  in  advance  of  her, 
a  man's  voice  shouted  warningly  from  below. 
In  another  moment  a  young  fisherman  in 
shaggy  blue,  with  torn  and  dripping  overalls, 
and  yellow  curls  bare  to  the  storm,  ran  lightly 
upwards  and  out  upon  the  narrow  shelving 
pathway  where  the  two  slight  figures  were 
struggling  along  in  the  teeth  of  wind  and 
spray. 

"  Is  everybody  mad — or  in  love  ?  "  said 
Lady  Jane,  blankly. 


245 


XXXV 

WITH  the  wild  wind  tearing  at  their  gar- 
ments and  screaming  in  their  ears,  the  salt 
spume  lashing  their  smarting  faces,  the  rack 
and  riotjpf  the  combating  elements  around, 
above,  and  beneath,  the  girls  reached  the 
whitewashed  stone  refuge  on  the  Coastguard 
Point  in  a  state  of  breathless  dishevelment, 
clinging  each  to  a  strong  hand  of  Huey 
Lenine. 

The  coastguard  removed  his  eye  from 
his  telescope,  and  drew  that  instrument  out 
of  its  loophole,  saluted  the  young  ladies 
respectfully,  and  wrung  out  his  dripping 
beard  by  way  of  making  a  complimentary 
toilet. 

"  Oh,  Mr.   Gerrian,"   Rosevear  Trelawney 

cried,  with  her  lips  close  to  the  sailor's  ear, 

"  do    you    see    anything    out    there    in    the 

midst  of  all  those  fearful  seas  ?     Not  a  large 

vessel :    a  small  yacht,  schooner-rigged,  like 

Mr.   Bevill's.     Indeed,   it   is   the   same,    and 

246 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

you  know  her  well.  She  has  been  anchored 
in  Porthporra  Haven  for  weeks  together. 
And  Mr.  Bevill  was  foolish  enough  to  sail 
from  Plymouth  this  morning,  with — with 
a  friend.  And  if  this  storm  has  overtaken 
them !" 

"If  it  has,  they  are  out  of  all  danger  by 
now,  Miss,"  the  coastguard  answered  shortly  ; 
"  safe  and  snug,  cap'en,  passenger,  and 
crew,  at  the  bottom  of  Davy  Jones's  locker." 

"  God  forbid  !  "  cried  Rosevear  hastily, 
blanching  through  the  red  the  wind  had 
whipped  into  her  fair  cheeks. 

"  Look  out  there,  Miss,  for  yourself,"  said 
the  sailor,  "  and  judge  whether  anything  of 
lighter  tonnage  than  a  full-sized  Indiaman 
could  live  in  such  a  sea.  If  start  they  did, 
and  the  gale  overtook  them,  they  never 
weathered  Rame  Head — and  that's  my  candid 
opinion." 

He  carefully  wiped  the  telescope  as  he 
spoke,  and  adjusted  it  for  Miss  Trelawney. 
As  her  sight  steadied,  and  her  heart  beat  less 
furiously,  she  took  her  first  peep  into  the 
middle  of  the  raging  Pandemonium,  miles 
out  to  sea.  She  was  in  the  heart  of  the 
storm,  by  the  simple  magic  01  the  lenses, 

247 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

and  the  huge  muddy  waves  were  raging 
round  her,  while  the  shrieking  tempest 
spurned  them,  and  snatched  away  their 
caps  of  foam.  And  then  a  black  spot  came 
upon  the  field  of  vision,  and  presently  she 
knew  that  it  was  a  ship. 

A  three-masted  ship,  a  sturdy  merchant- 
man, on  her  way  home  from  some  foreign 
port  to  her  owner's  dock  at  Plymouth,  and 
beaten  far  out  of  her  course  by  the  stress 
of  wind  and  weather ;  like  some  living 
creature,  struggling  and  straining  in  piteous 
case,  with  scarce  a  rag  of  sail  upon  her 
bending  poles  to  maintain  her  own.  Unless 
Fortune  mightily  favoured  that  good  vessel, 
her  end  would  be  soon,  her  shrift  a  short  one 
amongst  the  black  crags  and  boiling  caul- 
drons of  the  Devil's  Den,  or  upon  the  jagged 
spur  of  the  Lizard.  And  those  who  saw  her 
distress  from  the  land  must  perforce  look  on 
and  do  nothing  ;  there  was  no  getting  help 
to  her. 

So,  shuddering  and  sobbing,  she  scudded 
on,  with  her  cargo  of  human  hopes  and 
fears,  and  Miss  Trelawney  saw  her  no 
more. 

She  lifted  her  head  and  looked  round  at 
248 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

her  companions.  Lenine  and  Clara  were 
standing  apart,  not  speaking.  Clara's  regard 
was  bent  on  the  beaten  mud  floor  of  the 
shelter,  the  gaze  of  the  handsome,  yellow- 
haired  young  giant  was  earnestly,  timidly, 
eagerly  fixed  on  her.  And,  with  perceptions 
made  unnaturally  keen  by  the  fever  of  her 
own  heart,  it  may  be,  Rosevear  read  the 
meaning  of  the  look  and  knew  Lenine's  secret 
at  last.  And,  as  the  knowledge  burst  upon 
her,  Clara's  dark  eyes  were  raised  to  meet 
those  passionate  blue  ones. 


Miss  Trelawney  started  and  caught  her 
breath. 

"  By  the  Lord  !  "  Mr.  Gerrian,  who  had 
been  busy  at  the  spy-hole  that  looked  east- 
wards, gave  utterance  to  an  exclamation 
that  startled  the  others. 

"  What  is't,  captain  ? "  cried  Huey, 
eagerly. 

"  You  can  see  as  well  wi'  your  naked  eyes 
as  me  with  th'  glass,  Huey,  my  son,"  Ger- 
rian said,  excitedly,  surrendering  his  place 
to  the  young  fisherman.  "  Look  out  there, 

249 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

a  mile  an'  a  half  out  to  sea,  in  a  line  wi1  th' 
Tarrand  Church  Rock.  Eh  ?  " 

"  Yes/'  said  Huey,  his  bronzed  face  grow- 
ing pale,  "  'tis  'em,  sure  enough.  And  God 
help  'em  !  " 

"  Ay,  God  help  'em !  "  responded  the 
coastguard,  "  for  man  can  do  nowt.  Must 
we  break  it  to  th'  ladies  ?  " 

"  Break  what  ?  "  Rosevear  said. 

Then  her  eyes  lightened,  and  she  held  out 
her  hand  imperiously  for  the  glass.  She 
adjusted  it  herself  in  the  loophole — she 
looked — and  a  cry  burst  from  her. 

"  THE  YACHT  !  " 

"  Ay,  'tis  th'  yacht,"  responded  Gerrian. 
There  was  a  lull  in  the  tempest,  it  was 
easier  to  speak  and  to  hear.  They  looked 
on  one  another's  pale  faces  and  strained  their 
eyes  towards  that  speck  on  the  raging  waters 
—how  many  minutes  might  pass  before  it 
vanished  underneath  them  ? 

"  Can  nothing  be  done  ?  "  cried  Rosevear. 

'  Think — think,  for  God's  sake,  Mr.  Tredennis 

— Huey  Lenine,   every  minute  is  of  value. 

Think  quickly.     Must  we  see  Mr.  Bevill  and 

— and  the   other   drowned  before  our   eyes 

without  lifting  a  hand  to  save  them  ?     Mv 

250 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

God,  my  God — it  is  terrible  !  If  you  have 
any  pity  in  either  of  you,  think  of  some- 
thing— do  something  !  " 

Her  voice  broke  in  a  despairing  wail. 
She  leaned  against  the  rough  wall  and 
clasped  her  hands  upon  her  bosom  to  force 
back  the  choking  sobs. 

"  There  must  be  a  way  to  save  them," 
said  Clara,  breathlessly,  looking  at  Huey 
with  eager  shining  eyes. 

"  Ther'  may  be  a  way,"  Lenine  answered 
curtly.  "  M'appen  'tis  but  a  bare  chance 
for  Mr.  Vosper  an'  his  friend.  M'appen  'tis 
death  for  some  o'  them  as  tries  it.  But  a 
chance  there  be." 

"  You're  out  o'  your  mind,  lad,"  said 
Gerrian,  roughly. 

"  Naw,"  returned  Huey.  "  Aw  knaw  what 
aw  be  talkin'  about.  'Tis  trew  no  boat 
could  get  out  o'  th'  haven  in  a  whole  skin 
wi'  such  a  sea,  but  from  Tarrand  Bay  one 
might  be  got  off,  'tis  just  possible.  An' 
if  any  can  be  found  willin'  to  go  wi'  me " 

"  Not  one'll  risk  it,"  returned  Gerrian. 
"  'Em  have  wives  an'  children,  lad,  to  think 
on.  Why  should  they  throw  away  their 
lives  for  nowt  ?  " 

251 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

'  Then  aw'll  go  by  mysen,"  said  Huey 
Lenine.  He  drew  himself  up  to  his  full 
height,  his  blue  eyes  glinted  like  steel  in 
the  cold  daylight.  He  touched  his  forelock 
to  the  ladies  and  turned  to  go.  But  Rose- 
vear  caught  his  hand. 

'  You  are  a  brave  man.  The  bravest  I 
ever  met.  God  bless  and  keep  you,  Huey 
Lenine.  And  when  you  come  back  safe  and 
sound,  oh,  if  money  can  make  you  and  your 
sweetheart  happy,  you  shall  have  the  half 
of  everything  I  have  got  in  the  world.  Go ! 
Go  !  Why  am  I  keeping  you,  when  every 
minute  means  so  much  ?  Shake  hands 
with  Miss  Clara.  This  is  the  bravest  man 
in  England  to-day.  Shake  hands  with  him 
before  he  goes." 

The  little  white  hand  was  enfolded  in  the 
strong,  coarse  one  for  a  second.  Their  eyes 
met,  and  lingered  in  a  parting  look.  Then 
Huey  was  gone.  Gone  out  of  hearing  of  the 
cry  that  broke  from  lips  he  had  never  dared 
to  touch,  even  in  dreaming,  at  the  bidding 
of  Love,  the  Leveller  of  distinctions. 


25? 


XXXVI 

VOLUNTEERS  were  found,  six  hardy  men 
and  true,  to  follow  the  forlorn  hope  of  Huey 
Lenine.  His  father,  old  'Zekiel,  a  stern, 
grey  giant,  with  eyes  as  blue  and  bright  as 
Huey's,  Oliver  and  Pennell,  the  handsome 
stalwart  sons  of  Miller  Job,  Ned  Carnelly, 
the  village  rake  and  ne'er-do-well,  and  two 
other  fishermen,  broad-chested,  hirsute  men 
of  middle  age.  The  wheels  were  taken  from 
a  cart,  and  urged  by  willing  hands  through 
the  storm  and  stress  of  weather,  the  smaller 
•of  the  two  seine  boats  belonging  to  Porth- 
porra  fishery  was  run  to  Tarrand  Bay.  The 
sea  swept  in  there  with  a  force  almost  resist- 
less. Time  upon  time  they  essayed  to  launch 
the  boat,  but  without  success.  At  last,  stout 
hands  and  willing  hearts  triumphed.  They 
were  gone  into  the  raging  hell  out  yonder. 
No  glimpse  was  to  be  gained  of  the  yacht, 
but  Pennell's  signal  from  Porthporra  coast- 

253 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

guard  point  told  the  eager  watchers  on  the 
rocky  coast  that  she  was  still  afloat. 

So  with  sweat-drops  standing  on  broad 
chests  and  knitted  brows,  with  dripping  gar- 
ments and  matted  locks  stiff  with  the  sandy 
spume,  the  rescuers  pursued  their  perilous 
way — until  to  the  two  drenched  comrades, 
clinging  to  the  rigging  of  the  now  fast  sinking 
yacht,  the  knowledge  that  help  was  at  hand, 
gave  the  cue  for  the  wild  hurrah !  that 
echoed  out  from  shore,  as  the  human  prey 
was  snatched  by  human  hands  from  the  jaws 
of  the  old  sea  monster  Death. 

More  waiting,  and  then  the  boat  appeared, 
hurled  from  crest  to  crest  of  the  terrific  rollers. 
Nearer  and  nearer  it  drew,  'Zekiel  Lenine 
standing  in  the  stern,  as  lofty  and  immov- 
able a  figure  as  ever  steered  a  Viking  ship 
of  old.  And  then,  lifted  bodily  on  an  enor- 
mous sea,  the  boat  was  hurled  to  shore, 
and  a  hundred  willing  hands  snatched  the 
rescuers  and  the  rescued  into  safety. 

"  Thank  God,"  cried  Rosevear,  with  a  sob. 
Now  that  the  strain  was  over  she  trembled 
in  every  limb.  But  in  obedience  to  some  irre- 
sistible impulse  she  went  forward,  and  the 
throng  that  had  gathered  about  Curnow 

254 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

Vosper  and  his  companion  opened,  and  made 
way  for  her. 

He  saw  her.  He  stepped  forwards.  Their 
hands  met.  She  wondered  at  her  own  rap- 
ture of  thanksgiving  that  her  enemy  had 
been  snatched  from  the  sea.  Marjory  Dormer 
was  already  in  her  lover's  arms,  crying, 
hugging,  and  kissing  the  recovered  object  of 
her  affections  with  a  lack  of  restraint  which 
jarred  upon  the  delicate  sensibilities  of  Lady 
Jane. 


255 


XXXVII 

"  WHERE  is  Huey  Lenine  ?  Let  us  thank 
Huey,  to  whom  we  owe  everything,"  Rose- 
vear  said. 

A  murmur  rose  about  her.  She  looked 
round,  leaving  her  hand  in  Vesper's  clasp. 
She  met  solemn  glances  and  strange  looks. 
She  saw  the  ashy  face  of  'Zekiel  Lenine.  She 
heard  the  cry  that  broke  from  the  old  man. 

"  Out  yonder — out  i'  the  cruel  sea.  Ma 
son,  ma  son  !  The  prop  o'  ma  owd  age, 
the  joy  o'  ma  life.  Would  God  that  aw 
had  died  for  thee,  ma  son,  ma  son  !  " 

Lady  Jane,  standing  close  beside  Clara, 
heard  her  gasp,  and  felt  the  slight  figure  lapse 
heavily  against  her.  It  was  Joan  Melhuish 
who  bent  over  the  insensible  girl  and  raised 
her  in  her  arms.  Her  black  hair  fell  down 
over  the  small  white  face  that  lay  against 
her  bosom.  Her  eyes  were  tragic,  terrible, 
in  their  agony  and  despair.  She  turned  them 
upon  the  wild  sea,  upon  the  threatening  sky, 

256 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

now  beginning  to  redden  behind  its  bars  of 
wrack.  But  she  uttered  no  word.  Only 
when  her  burden  was  taken  from  her,  and 
the  gathered  throng  moved  to  depart,  falling 
by  mute  consent  into  processional  order, 
bareheaded,  behind  the  grief-stricken  figure 
of  the  dead  man's  father,  she  spoke  to  Rose- 
vear,  and  the  women  who  tried  to  lead  her 
away. 

"  Thank  'ee  all.  M'appen  'tis  kindly  meant, 
but  aw'm  best  left  alone.  'Tis  best  that  aw 
should  wait  here — for  him.  For  him  that 
gave  his  life  to  save  other  men's,  as  his 
Master  did  before  him.  O  women,  women, 
you  that  ha'  whispered  by  your  firesides  o' 
him  and  me,  and  crosses  between  us,  and 
lover's  promises  broken,  'ee  may  knaw  the 
truth  now.  His  heart  went  from  me  long 
ago,  not  by  his  will,  or  any  other's,  but  by 
the  law  o'  Love,  that  ebbs  and  flows  wi' 
the  changes  o'  the  moon,  like  the  sea.  An' 
he  tould  me  th'  truth  by  ways  more  than 
words,  an'  aw  bid  him  take  his  freedom  and 
go  wheriver  he  would,  wi'  th'  blessin'.  For 
all,  he  was  a  true  man — true  as  brave.  An' 
if  th'  Angels  o'  th'  dead  can  luke  down  from 
Heaven  on  them  'at  loved  'em  here  below, 

257  *7 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

his  Angel  sees  ma,  en  aw  that's  i'  my  heart, 
an'  loves  me  as  of  owd,  an'  when  aw  that's 
left  o'  him  as  was  so  dear  comes  to  me, 
watchin'  by  th*  shore  where  we  ha'  met  so 
often,  an'  when  aw  takes  him  i'  my  arms  to 
kiss  him  for  th'  last  time,  before  aw  lays  him 
in  th'  grave  where  both  may  one  day  lie 
together,  'twill  be  wi'  no  bitterness  o'  grief, 
but  wi'  a  spirit  as  quiet  as  th'  woman's  i' 
th'  Scripture  when  she  poured  th'  precious 
ointment  on  th'  Feet  that  walked  i'  the  ways 
o'  sorrow  for  all  of  us,  an'  wiped  them  in  her 
hair." 


So  they  went  away  and  left  her  waiting, 
in  obedience  to  her  command.  And  when 
the  tempest  ended  and  the  seas  went  down, 
she  was  still  keeping  vigil.  And  with  the 
next  sunrise,  That  for  which  she  had  watched 
and  waited  was  brought  to  her,  on  the  yeasty 
surges  of  the  incoming  tide. 


258 


XXXVIII 

CONCLUSION 

LADY  JANE  PEGRAM  stood  at  the  window 
of  the  oak  parlour  at  Killigarth,  reading  a 
letter.  The  balmy  breath  of  spring  floated 
in  at  the  open  casement,  bearing  to  the 
spinster  lady's  nostrils  a  spring  fragrance 
composed  of  the  thousand  odours  of  the 
wealthy  orchard,  the  primrose-strewn  fields, 
the  violets  and  jonquils  that  bloomed  in 
abundance  on  the  warm  sunny  slopes  of  the 
flower  garden,  and  the  hawthorn  blossoms 
of  the  hedges.  The  letter  was  in  Marjory's 
handwriting,  and  dated  from  Truro,  where, 
since  their  return  from  their  honeymoon,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Philip  Bevill  had  quietly  settled 
down. 

"  The  practice  was  represented  to  us  as  a 
capital  one,"  Marjory  wrote,  "and  I  believe 
it  was,  as  Philip's  predecessor  had  a  con* 
tract  for  supplying  cattle  to  the  proprietors 

259  17* 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

of  the  four-horse  omnibuses,  which  in  the 
tourist  season  continually  run  backwards 
and  forwards  between  Truro  and  the  neigh- 
bouring places  of  interest.  He  was  a  veterin- 
ary surgeon  as  well  as  a  mender  of  human 
bones,  and  as  he  was  in  the  habit  of  jobbing 
out  such  among  his  equine  patients  as  were 
not  actually  what  Philip  calls  in  articulo 
mortis,  accidents  were  frequent,  and  he  has 
now  been  able  to  retire  on  a  considerable 
fortune.  And  now,  prepare  yourself  for  a 
shock." 

"  Dear  me  !  "  ejaculated  Lady  Jane. 

"  The  considerable  amount  owing  the 
Limited  Liability  Company  of  Female  Fruit 
and  Flower  Gardeners — that  Company,  which 
though  deprived  of  several  of  its  original 
promoters,  still  nourishes  under  your  ener- 
getic and  admirable  management  " — Lady 
Jane  smiled  proudly — "  and  will  continue  to 
do  so,  it  is  to  be  hoped  for  many  years  to 
come — will,  I  have  reason  to  fear,  remain 
unpaid.  Under  the  disguise  of  Mr.  Joshua 
Petherwick,  the  teetotal  greengrocer  of 
Integrity  Mount,  who  for  so  many  months 
has  been  kind  enough  to  relieve  the  Killi- 
garth  Farm  of  the  greater  part  of  its  garden 

260 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

and  farm  produce — under  this  counterfeit 
presentment  exists  no  less  a  person  than 
Rosevear's  defaulting  tenant,  Mr.  Pen- 
gwillian." 

"  I  felt  it  in  my  bones,"  commented  Lady 
Jane,  with  a  vigorous  nod,  "  from  the  very 
beginning." 

The  letter  continued  :  "  His  ingenious  ex- 
cuses for  not  paying  the  value  of  the  produce 
obtained  from  our  Company,  ought  to  have 
awakened  our  suspicions." 

"  Mine,"  Lady  Jane  said,  "  were  awake 
from  the  first." 

"  The  manner  in  which  the  fact  of  the 
wretch's  identity  was  revealed  to  us,  was 
simple  in  the  extreme.  Upon  our  intimating 
to  him  that  proceedings  would  be  instituted 
for  the  recovery  of  the  money,  he  wrote 
Philip  a  letter — much  adorned  with  Scrip- 
tural quotations — and  signed  with  his  real 
name.  In  it  he  asserted  that  having  been 
deprived  of  his  property  by  the  unwomanly 
cupidity  of  Miss  Trelawney — now  Mrs.  Cur- 
now  Vosper — he  had  taken  the  best  means 
at  hand  of  recompensing  himself  for  the  losses 
he  had  sustained !  He  sealed  the  letter 
with  the  door-key  of  his  shop,  and  begged 

261 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

to  assure  us  that  although  our  continued 
enmity  had  driven  him  to  the  last  resource 
of  laying  his  aged  bones  in  a  foreign  country, 
he  would  continue  to  intercede  for  our 
ultimate  forgiveness  and  election  at  the  hour 
of  Family  Worship.  Nothing  has  yet  been 
heard  of  him  !  " 

"  Nor  will  be,"  said  Lady  Jane.  "  I  should 
find  it  harder  to  endure  the  thought  of 
those  cauliflowers  and  things,  if  we  were  not 
really  beginning  to  make  a  handsome  profit 
out  of  Killigarth.  But  here  is  Fanny  !  " 

Here  was  Fanny.  Here,  too,  was  Mr. 
Polwheal,  even  more  florid,  but  not  so  bash- 
ful as  of  old,  shaking  hands  with  Lady  Jane 
as  though  he  had  never  invited  her,  with  five 
other  unattached  spinsters,  to  become  the 
mistress  of  his  heart  and  home.  The  new 
house  was  in  process  of  building  ;  the  pony 
carriage,  distantly  alluded  to  by  Mr.  Pol- 
wheal, had  developed  into  a  mail-phaeton 
and  pair ;  the  obstreperous  majority  of 
the  young  Polwheals  were  safe  at  school ; 
the  minor  olive-branches  were  enthusiastically 
submissive  to  the  rule  of  their  new  parent, 
who  never  confused  William's  brimstone  and 
treacle  with  Oliver's  chemical  food,  and 

262 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

always  called  them  by  the  names  conferred 
upon  them  at  their  christenings.  Fanny 
was  looking  wonderfully  well,  though  the 
dog-collar  belt  of  the  old  days  would  have 
failed  to  encompass  her  charms.  The  last 
shadow  of  chagrin  regarding  Mr.  Polwheal's 
supposed  lack  of  ancestry  had  been  com- 
pletely wiped  away  by  the  fact,  accidentally 
revealed  by  the  simple  Joshua,  that  a  Pol- 
wheal  had  figured  at  the  Battle  of  Hastings 
in  the  capacity  of  standard-bearer  to  the 
half-brother  of  the  Conqueror,  Robert  of 
Mortain. 

One  morning,  a  few  days  later,  saw  Killi- 
garth  decorated  as  for  a  gala.  Breakfast 
was  laid  in  the  long  room,  and  a  pleasant 
company  sat  round  the  table.  Lady  Jane 
and  Fanny  were  superbly  attired  ;  Marjory 
dawned  on  all  beholders  in  the  most  elegant 
of  Parisian  gowns  and  the  divinest  of  bonnets. 
Mrs.  Curnow  Vosper,  once  the  exiled  Princess 
of  Trelawney,  now  chatelaine  of  that  fair 
manor  by  right  of  alliance  with  The  Usurper, 
looked  more  beautiful  than  ever.  Dress  could 
make  no  difference  to  Rosevear,  in  other 
eyes  than  the  adoring  ones  that  so  often 
rested  on  her.  Octavia  sat  in  the  place 

263 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

of  distinction,  dressed,  oh,  kindly  Heaven  ! 
in  a  gown  of  white  satin  trimmed  with  costly 
lace.  Orange-blossoms  mingled  themselves 
with  the  unwonted  frivolities  of  her  attire. 
Diamonds,  the  gift  of  her  husband,  the 
Reverend  Lemuel  Carew,  sparkled  at  her 
throat,  and  on  her  finger  the  plain  gold 
circlet,  the  badge  of  servitude  to  the  iron- 
handed  oppressor,  showed  to  advantage  as 
the  bride  blushingly  cut  the  cake,  that 
indigestible  symbol  of  commonplace  domestic 
joys. 

"It  is  funny  when  one  conies  to  think  of 
it,"  whispered  Fanny  to  Lady  Jane,  "  that 
Octavia  is  the  only  one  of  us  who  was  married 
in  a  wedding-dress.  I  think  I  do  deserve 
some  credit,  really.  Everything  has  come 
to  pass  just  as  I  foretold  it.  And  if  I  had 
not  done  as  I  did  in  the  matter — you  needn't 
shake  your  head — Rosevear  and  Mr.  Vosper 
would  never  have  been  brought  together. 
She  has  forgiven  me  as  I  said  she  would. 
I  am  quite  sure,  that  in  her  heart  of  hearts, 
she  continually  lauds,  blesses,  and  glorifies 
the  name  of  Fanny  Polwheal.  By  the  way, 
papa  is  coming  home  from  India  at  last,  as 
he  says,  to  pass  the  remainder  of  his  life 

264 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

amongst  his  dear  ones.  He  is  bringing  home 
all  that  is  left  of  his  liver,  a  considerable 
amount  of  money,  amassed  in  the  discharge 
of  his  duty  to  his  Government,  and  a  step- 
mamma  for  Marjory  and  I.  We  are  told 
that  she  is  of  dark  complexion  and  wears  a 
nose-ring,  but  rumour  is  so  uncertain.  It 
may  be  only  a  gold  button,  like  that  of  the 
Brown-Gingall's  ayah.  Let  us  hope  for  the 
best.  Papa  is  charmed  to  hear  of  Marjory's 
marriage  and  mine.  He  says  he  had  almost 
given  up  all  hope  of  ever  getting  us  taken 
off  his  hands." 

They  are  all  talking  together,  they  all  are 
merry  and  hopeful.  Yet  sometimes  a  glance 
will  stray  to  Clara's  empty  place  at  table. 
That  she  may  soon  fill  it  again  is  the  heart- 
felt hope  of  all.  The  English  spring  is  sweet, 
but  too  cold  for  the  blossom  that  rude  winter 
pinched  so  sharply.  Clara  is  at  Mentone,  in 
the  charge  of  the  faithful  nurse  who  tended 
her  in  the  desperate  illness  that  followed  the 
day  of  the  great  storm  ;  who,  little  by  little, 
raised  her  from  the  brink  of  the  grave  to 
which  she  seemed  to  be  so  surely  sinking, 
and  who  has  been  throughout  her  tedious 
convalescence  her  comforter  and  friend.  They 

265 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

will  hardly  sever,  those  two.  They  love 
each  other  more  dearly  for  the  love  they 
bore  another  of  whom  they  never  speak. 


Joan's  voice  may  be  the  making  of  her 
fortune  yet.  A  famous  professor  of  music 
and  teacher  of  ballad  vocalists  has  heard 
her  sing,  has  offered  to  undertake  her  train- 
ing and  arrange  for  her  appearance  on  the 
stage  of  the  concert-hall  by  and  by.  We 
may  be  sure  that  whatever  laurels  Fate  may 
hold  in  store  for  Joan,  she  will  wear  them 
as  she  wears  her  beauty  and  her  great  grief, 
modestly  and  silently. 


The  health  of  the  bride  has  been  drunk, 
the  Reverend  Lemuel  has  responded,  badly. 
Rosevear  rises,  and  all  eyes  are  turned  to  her. 
She  speaks  : 

"  To-day  sees  the  partial  dissolution  of  a 
band  of  women-workers  who  leagued  them- 
selves together  to  fight  against  ill-fortune, 
and  wrest  with  their  own  hands  their  daily 

266 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

bread  from  the  supreme  Mother  of  all 
humanity.  Success  has  crowned  our  efforts 
and  will  crown  them  in  the  future.  We  have 
essayed  and  proved  that  woman's  enterprise, 
woman's  co-operation,  woman's  effort  need 
not  necessarily  result  in  failure. 

"  We  have  proved  another  thing,  and 
that  is  that  women  can  be  good  friends  and 
trusty  comrades  to  each  other.  Scarcely  one 
jarring  chord,"  Fanny  giggled,  "  has  marred 
the  harmony  of  our  life  together.  If  any 
other  of  our  sisters  would  follow  our  example, 
let  them  take,  as  we  did,  advice  of  the 
mediaeval  rhymster.  '  The  Songe  of  Goode 
Fellowship '  needs  but  little  adaptation  to 
suit  such  a  case.  I  have  ventured,"  said 
Rosevear,  modestly,  "  with  all  due  respect 
to  Matthew  Merry-Greek,  to  alter  a  word 
here  and  there  : 


'  A  thing  very  fitte, 
For  maides  that  have  witte, 
Being  companions  litte, 
All  in  one  common  house  to  bee  ; 
As  fast  fast  for  to  sitte, 
And  not  oft  to  flitte, 
Nor  varie  a  whitte, 
But  lovingly  to  agree. 

267 


Maids  in  a  Market  Garden 

Not  one  complayning, 

Nor  other  disdayning, 

For  loss  or  for  gayning, 

But  sisters  and  friends  to  bee  ; 

No  grudge  retayning, 

No  work  refrayning, 

Nor  helpe  restrayning, 

But  lovingly  to  agree. 

No  maid  for  despite, 
By  word  or  by  write, 
Her  compeer  to  slight, 
But  partner  in  honestie  ; 
No  good  turns  entwite, 
Nor  old  wrong  recite, 
But  let  all  goe  quite. 
And  lovingly  to  agree. 

And  after  drudgerie. 

When  they  be  werie, 

Then  to  be  merie, 

As  sisters  and  friends  should  be. 

With  chip  and  cherie, 

High  derie  derie, 

Trill  on  the  berie, 

And  lovingly  to  agree  ! '  " 


THE  END 


Printed  at  The  Chapel  River  Press,   Kingston,  Surrey. 


University  of  California 

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Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  It  was  borrowed. 


23  1998 


"        '<        M        I    I    I      H        f        ||    I     I      I      J      || 

A     000042179     2 


